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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  WOMAN   HERSELF 


THE 

Woman  Herself 


NEW  YORK 

THE  STUYVESANT  PRESS 

1909 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
THE   STUYVESANT   PRESS 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


CHAPTER  I 

October  29th. 

TO-NIGHT  we  watched  a  magnificent  fire,  very 
close  to  us.  We  two  were  alone  on  the  balcony, 
detached  from  everything  in  the  world,  it 
seemed  to  me,  facing  the  soaring  flame.  And  a 
kind  of  spell  fell  on  us,  of  fascination  and  fear. 
The  sky  turned  green,  and  the  moon  faded  out 
in  the  great,  ruinous  light,  and  men  were  fight 
ing  it,  and  excitement  and  confusion  were  every 
where  about  us,  but  we  two  sat  quite  quietly  on 
the  balcony  watching.  And  I  was  vaguely  sur 
prised  to  find  myself  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 
It  wasn't  the  October  frost,  it  wasn't  the  fire, 
but  another  kind  of  fear,  indefinite — and  sweet. 
The  flames  were  enclosing  the  great  mass  dome. 

1 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


Suddenly  it  broke  into  a  myriad  prism  colours 
aad  lights.  It  was  gorgeous — beautiful  past  de 
scription.  I  thought  of  the  Kremlin.  I  looked 
for  the  moon — it  was  gone ;  for  the  stars — they 
were  blotted  out.  But  close  beside  me  were  two 
eyes — warm  eyes  that  humanized  the  horrible 
light,  and  a  voice  saying : 

" Don't  be  afraid;  there  is  no  danger." 

No  danger !  I  fetched  a  long  breath  and  said 
good-night,  and  realized  that  brain  and  spine 
were  aching  as  if  after  a  strain.  Yet  only  a 
shiver  had  gone  over  me. 

There  are  things  that  can't  be  told  to  a  third 
person — things  between  two — tangible  and  dan 
gerous — to  them,  and  too  delicate  to  be  put  into 
words  to  others.  People  who  have  lived  these 
things  know  the  signs  afar  off — and  the  others 
will  find  out  for  themselves. 

I  hate  women  who  keep  journals — they  are 
such  egotists.  I  never  kept  one  before  in  my 
life,  but  the  need  of  a  confidant  now  is  com- 

2 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


polling  me.    It  will  help  me  to  think   out   my 
problem,  about  which  I  can't  ask  any  one. 

Here  I  am,  a  married  woman  of  twenty-nine, 
and  happily  married,  too,  as  the  world  sees 
things,  for  seven  years.  A  comfortable  income, 
a  good  social  position,  a  man  of  pleasant  tem 
per,  humour  and  culture,  who  cares  for  her — 
what  more  should  a  woman  want?  She 
shouldn't — that's  the  plain  answer,  especially 
when  she  married  him  of  her  own  free  will  and 
choice,  loving  him  as  much  as  she  could  love 
then,  with  her  family's  entire  approval,  and  the 
blessings  of  friends,  spring  weather,  and  Holy 
Church.  All  quite  as  it  should  be — happy  and 
normal  and  right.  I  can  see  it  now,  that  spring 
wedding  day  seven  pleasant  years  ago — 
" ideal,"  the  girl  friends  said.  The  little  church 
in  the  Green — the  sifted  sunshine  through  the 
stained  glass  windows,  the  beckoning  of  flowers 
and  birds  outside — and  inside  the  swelling 
music,  the  solemn  hush.  My  own  slim  figure  in 

3 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


its  trailing  satin  gown,  and  grandma's  old  lace 
wedding  veil,  looked  unfamiliar.  So  did  the 
man  I  met  at  the  altar  rail — so  even  did  my 
father's  grave,  sad  eyes.  It  all  seemed  unreal, 
as  if  it  were  happening  to  some  one  else — not 
to  merry  little  me.  I  must  have  looked  very 
solemn  about  it,  as,  the  ceremony  over,  we 
turned  to  walk  out  with  the  great  march  peal 
ing  after  us,  for  my  husband  whispered  to  me : 
"Cheer  up,  Old  Dear.  Don't  look  as  if  I  had 
beaten  you  already!" — which  of  course  made 
me  laugh,  and,  the  strain  over,  we  chatted  gaily 
in  the  carriage.  We  reached  home  before  the 
others,  and  there  grandma  met  us  on  the  ver 
anda — she  had  been  too  frail  to  go  to  the 
church ;  but  she  stood  erect  there  on  the  porch — 
a  picture  that  will  never  tarnish — the  sunlight 
on  her  silver  hair,  her  face  like  an  old  garden, 
full  of  wise,  sweet  paths.  She  took  a  hand  of 
each  of  us,  and — 

"Now,  Mr.  Trent,"  she  gravely  said,  full  of 
4 


THE  WOMAN  HEKSELF 


old-fashioned  formality,  "I  say  to  you  as  I  said 
to  my  daughter's  husband  twenty- two  years 
ago,  'Be  good  to  Junia.'  He  was  good  to  that 
Junia — be  you  good  to  this  one." 

And  Eichard  said  "I  will"  very  deeply — and 
she  blessed  us  both. 

I  wonder  why  I  recall  all  this  and  take  the 
trouble  to  write  it  down  1  It  is  something  more 
than  the  need  of  a  confidant — it  is  a  need  of  self- 
expression.  There  is  something  in  me  that 
longs  to  express  itself  in  some  way — and  I  don't 
in  the  least  care  how,  whether  I  sing,  write, 
paint,  act,  dance  or  design  in  some  one  of  the 
crafts.  I  do  not  care — so  long  as  in  my  work  I 
can  express  myself  in  some  way.  All  art  calls 
to  me,  and  all  life,  joys  of  the  senses,  and  joys 
of  the  soul. 

Well,  Dick  and  I  were  married  and  lived  hap 
pily.  He  was  a  good  bit  older  than  I,  and  so  all 
the  more  interesting  companion.  We  went 
abroad  for  the  usual  trip.  We  were  never  bored 

5 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


with  each  other.  Our  splendid  friendship  and 
sense  of  humour  carried  us  safely  through  our 
first  quarrel,  and  we  never  had  but  one.  After 
a  while  we  came  back  from  Europe  and  "set 
tled  down.'* 

Ah,  that  "settling  down"  of  marriage !  To  a 
girl,  passionless  and  undeveloped,  the  first  feel 
ing  of  marriage  is  of  an  extraordinary  intimacy 
with  a  stranger.  She  has  married  for  "love," 
she  thinks,  and  in  a  sentimental,  idealistic  way 
perhaps  she  really  feels  it.  The  pleasure  that 
her  lover's  kiss  gives  her  she  imagines  (shyly 
and  to  herself  alone)  is  "passion."  Her  sense 
of  sex  is  asleep,  and  awakes  slowly.  In  my  case 
it  didn't  seem  to  awake  at  all.  Tenderness,  af 
fection,  admiration,  comradeship — all  these 
were  there  from  the  first — and  never  failed ;  but 
—well,  anyway  we  "settled  down"  and  lived 
happily.  We  danced,  rode,  golfed,  bridged,  and 
dined  with  the  rest  of  our  set.  Our  Sundays  got 
to  be  the  thing.  Nearly  every  one  we  drew 

6 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


around  us  was  Somebody  in  the  world  of  art 
or  letters  or  life.  And  Richard  and  I  were 
really  happy.  "We  used  to  wish  often  that  others 
would  come  to  share  our  home — but  they  never 
did.  And  I  used  to  wonder — and  worry  as  to 
the  why.  With  such  splendid  health,  so  good 
an  inheritance  of  every  kind  to  pass  on,  chil 
dren  never  came  to  us. 

But  the  happy  years  went  by,  and  except  for 
these  secret  wonders  of  mine  they  went 
smoothly. 

And  then — which  is  now! 

Mrs.  Chester  asked  us  down  tc  her  place  to 
see  her  celebrated  amateurs  play  "Paolo  and 
Francesca."  She  had  some  interesting  people 
staying  with  her,  so  I  was  glad  to  go.  But  at 
the  last  moment  Dick  was  called  West  on  busi 
ness  for  his  firm,  and  I  had  to  go  alone.  I  ar 
rived  too  late  for  dinner,  and  by  the  time  I  had 
dressed,  the  play  was  on.  My  hostess'  younger 
son  found  me  a  seat  in  the  box  reserved  for 

7 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


the  family,  and  in  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Chester 
came  in.  She's  a  dear  person,  full  of  pleasant 
worldiness,  a  patron  of  all  the  arts,  and  much 
beloved  by  the  large  circle  in  which  she  moves. 
I  had  seen  her  amateurs  play  before  several 
times,  for  it  was  one  of  Mrs.  Chester's  pet  in 
terests.  She  is  even  able  occasionally  to  secure 
a  professional  actor  or  actress,  generally  to  play 
some  rare  role,  the  mere  reading  of  which  is 
a  delight,  and  which  must  be  a  great  joy  to 
create.  Sometimes  she  has  been  able  to  secure 
the  wonderful  combination  of  a  great  author,  a 
distinguished  actor,  and  an  unproduced  play, 
and  with  these  she  gets  up  an  entertainment  on 
a  large  scale  for  charity — thus  combining  her 
ambition  as  a  patron  of  the  arts,  and  her  benefi 
cence  as  a  great  giver  to  large  charities.  It  is 
wonderful  what  money  and  brains  can  do.  She 
came  into  the  box  and  sank  down  into  the  seat 
beside  me  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"My  dear,"  she  said,  "we  have  had  such  a 
8 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


fright:  the  Paolo — Ted  Eedmond — yelled  him 
self  hoarse  at  the  Harvard- Yale  game  yester 
day — stupid  boy! — caught  cold,  and  by  to-day 
wasn't  able  to  speak  above  a  whisper.  I  don't 
know  what  we  should  have  done  to-night  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  Comte  de  Toreyne.  He  is 
visiting  the  Van  Nesses,  you  know,  and  as  he 
had  seen  the  play  several  times  in  London  he 
was  more  or  less  familiar  with  it,  and  able  to 
learn  it  quickly.  I've  just  been  behind  the 
scenes  to  see  if  I  could  help,  and  he  isn't  a  bit 
nervous.  Do  you  know  him?"  she  suddenly 
asked. 

"No,"  I  said  without  any  especial  curiosity, 
though  I  like  foreigners,  as  a  general  rule.  They 
are  so  very  different  from  our  men — taking 
serious  things  so  lightly,  and  light  things  so 
seriously. 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Chester  continued,  "he  is  the 
most  fascinating  man  I  have  met  in  a  long  time. 
Everybody  is  crazy  about  him;  of  course,  par 
ticularly  the  women.  Mrs.  Van  Ness  met  him 

9 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


in  Paris — the  Van  Nesses  have  a  house  there, 
you  know — and  invited  him  to  visit  them  this 
season.  I  fancy  she  wants  him  for  her  daugh 
ter  Ethel,  who 's  playing  Francesca,  by  the  way. 
She  looks  lovely — has  the  hair,  but  not  the  tem 
perament.  ' ' 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "Ethel  is  cold  and  sweet;  but 
she  ought  to  read  well. ' ' 

"Oh,  read!"  interrupted  Mrs.  Chester  with 
scorn.  "She  has  intelligence — appreciation, 
even — and  that  lovely  red-gold  hair;  but  the 
passion,  the  fervour,  the  beauty  of  the  Italian 
Francesca — well,  I  didn't  realize  what  she 
lacked  till  I  heard  the  Comte.  Wait  till  the 
curtain  rises  again  and  you'll  see." 

It  was  just  about  to  rise  on  the  exquisite  gar 
den  scene.  I  watched  the  two  lovers  drawing  ir 
resistibly  together;  the  threads  of  their  desti 
nies  subtly  touching — mingling — enfolding.  A 
lightning  touch — and  a  thunder  sequence !  Ah, 
I  thought,  they  are  happiest  who  only  know  the 

10 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


beginnings — especially  in  love.  And  then  ' '  like 
to  music  heard  ere  birth,"  came  a  wonderful 
voice,  saying  wonderful  words : 

"Thy  face  remembered  is  from  other  lives — 
It  has  been  fought  for,  though  I  know  not  where; 
It  has  been  died  for,  though  I  know  not  when" — 

and  I  knew  before  I  heard  it,  her  answer: 

"I  lie  out  on  your  arm  and  say  your  name — Paolo!  Paolo!" 

and  like  two  angels,  lifted  into  entire  rapture, 
they  passed  from  our  sight  behind  the  gold 
curtains  that  hid  their  love's  surrender.  .  .  . 
Dimly,  after  an  interval,  I  became  conscious 
of  the  enthusiasm  about  me;  all  these  cultured 
people — old  and  young — were  applauding  vig 
orously,  but  there  was  a  strange  stillness  in  me, 
a  hush,  an  expectancy.  I  saw  Ethel  Van  Ness 
stand  gaily  bowing  to  her  many  friends — not 
Francesca  now — receiving  armfuls  of  flowers, 
and  retiring.  And  while  the  tumult  in  the 
theater  continued,  the  stillness  in  me  increased ; 

11 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


and  then  You  came — not  you  as  the  Comte  de 
Toreyne — but  you  as  the  Paolo  of  the  past — 
bringing  with  you  still  an  atmosphere  of  the 
iplay,  as  you  gravely  bowed ;  and  some  force  of 
feeling  within  me  thrilled  toward  you,  and  drew 
your  eyes  to  mine  for  a  second.  Perhaps  there 
was  a  tribute  in  my  look,  for  your  acknowledg 
ment  was  the  very  grace  of  courtesy — before 
you  bowed  and  withdrew. 

And  I  heard  Mrs.  Chester  enthusing :  ' '  Such 
magnetism! — such  charm!  Why  aren't  there 
more  men  like  that?  It  does  seem  as  if  the 
Latin  races  had  a  monopoly  of  them,  doesn't 
it?  He  is  the  most  enormous  success!  But 
Ethel!  She's  a  beautiful  marble  statue,  and 
that's  all.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  Ted  Redmond 
strained  his  voice — fancy  him  playing  Paolo! 
My  dear,  I  shall  give  this  same  entertainment 
over  again  next  week  for  the  benefit  of  the  crip 
pled  children — and  you  must  play  Francesca ! ' ' 

"Oh,  I  couldn't!"  I  said,  aghast. 
12 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


"Why  not?"  demanded  the  great  Mrs.  Ches 
ter  in  her  forceful  way.  "You  have  the  tem 
perament — it's  much  more  important  than  the 
hair!" 

I  laughed  at  that. 

"Wait  till  you  meet  the  Comte  at  supper," 
she  continued.  "I'll  get  him  to  persuade  you, 
and  I  rely  on  you  to  persuade  him.  I  haven't 
given  anything  to  those  crippled  children — or 
is  it  the  blind  beggars? — for  tw.o  years!" 

Mrs.  Chester  always  gets  mixed  up  in  her 
philanthropies,  but  never  in  anything  else — I 
fancy  the  other  things  interest  her  more. 

"I  don't  even  want  to  meet  him,"  I  said 
irresolutely. 

"Why  not?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Chester. 

"Oh,  he's  bound  to  be  disappointing  after 
this!" 

My  friend  laughed  gaily. 

"  Junia,  you  are  just  a  big  schoolgirl  in  some 
ways,  still,"  she  said.  "How  can  it  matter  to 

13 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


you  if  lie  is  disappointing!  You  silly  idealist! 
But  lie  isn't — he's  utterly  charming;  brilliant, 
audaciously  witty — the  best  type  of  his  race — 
and  his  is  a  fine  old  family,  though  I  don't  think 
he  has  much  else  in  the  world. ' ' 

Afterward  when  Mrs.  Chester  presented  him 
to  me,  I  saw  a  slender  figure  of  medium  height 
with  broad  shoulders — and  the  finest  head  in 
the  world.  I  saw  an  unusual  face — eyes  set  wide 
apart,  of  an  indefinite,  moss-brown  colour, 
under  odd  brows — one  quite  level,  one  slightly 
arched — a  short,  straight  nose,  and  lips  of  ex 
treme  delicacy,  thin  and  beautifully  shaped. 
The  mouth  was  the  dominant  feature,  showing 
individuality  more  clearly  than  any  other.  It 
looked  both  tender  and  cruel — both  pliable  and 
obstinate — both  gentle  and  hard.  And  somehow 
I  felt  that  this  man  was  two  men — and  could  be 
either  or  both,  as  life  and  fate  should  decide. 
And  I  also  noticed  with  a  shock  that  Paolo  had 
hair  greying  at  the  temples,  and  that  this  added 

14 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


to  the  individuality  and  enhanced  the  beauty  of 
the  face.  I  saw  these  things  quite  clearly,  but 
over  and  above  them  I  felt  the  man  himself 
speaking  through  every  agent  of  expression,  of 
line  and  colour,  of  voice  and  manner  and  car 
riage.  And  I  saw  that  women  would  suffer  for 
him  and  he  be  all  unconscious ;  that  men  would 
hate  and  he  disregard  their  hatred ;  that  chil 
dren  would  love  him,  and  animals  obey  him,  and 
he  accept  them  both  as  tributes  to  himself — for 
when  men  magnetize  people  in  all  these  ways 
it  is  through  the  force  of  their  selfhood.  I  am 
only  thinking  this  out  definitely  for  the  first 
time,  but  I  felt  it  then,  as  he  took  my  hand  and 
bowed  over  it. 

And  afterward  in  my  room  I  sat  wondering. 
Felice  brushed  out  my  hair  in  her  satisfying 
way,  and  chatted  discreetly.  Had  madame  had 
a  pleasant  evening?  Madame  seemed  a  little 
quiet  and  tired — could  she  do  anything  for 
madame  ? 

15 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


When  she  had  gone  "madame"  leaned  for 
ward  and  surveyed  herself  in  the  glass.  Nine- 
and-twenty — well,  no  one  would  believe  it.  I 
looked  several  years  younger  than  that.  I  have 
often  wondered  if  I  am  beautiful — one  can  say 
it  here  without  fear  of  being  misjudged.  I  stood 
up  and  turned  to  look  over  my  shoulder  at  my 
self.  The  turn  threw  out  every  line  of  my  figure, 
and  I  saw  with  pleasure  that  they  were  all 
straight  and  slender  and  graceful — even  more — 
even — yes — alluring.  And  when  I  saw  that, 
something  laughed  out  of  my  eyes,  and  I  was 
glad !  How  vain  this  is !  how  light !  But — well, 
one  can  be  honest  to  oneself,  at  least.  My  hair 
is  nearly  as  dark  as  the  Comte's,  and  my  eyes 
are  darker,  and  also  set  far  apart.  I  wondered 
if  I  should  dare  play  Francesca  with  him — and 
when  I  slept  at  last  I  went  straight  into  a  beau 
tiful  dream,  in  which  we  two  walked  through 
haunted  halls,  our  arms  about  each  other ;  eyes 
on  eyes — and  heart  on  heart.  I  had  no  sense 

16 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


of  shame — it  seemed  natural  and  right.  My  own 
old  personality  simply  dropped  from  me  like 
a  dress  outworn — and  I  was  this  man's  and  he 
was  mine — as  it  had  been  before — as  it  would 
be  again. 

November  5th. 

But  of  course  it  was  all  quite  different  the 
next  day  when  he  came  over  to  call,  and  to  dis 
cuss  with  Mrs.  Chester  plans  for  her  next  en 
tertainment,  which  she  desires  to  give.  I  for 
get  for  whose  benefit  this  time,  but  it  has  to  take 
place  within  the  next  two  weeks,  before  every 
one  returns  to  town.  The  Van  Nesses  have  to 
go,  so  it  is  arranged  the  Comte  shall  join  Mrs. 
Chester's  house-party  till  the  end  of  the  month. 
And  that  is  the  beginning. 

The  first  days  flew  by — with  the  reading  of 
the  play — a  wonderful,  new  play,  by  a  still  more 
wonderful  author.  Some  great  actress  who  can 
be  more  people  than  one,  will  play  it  one  day — 
this  great,  three-fold  story.  It  is  called  the 

17 


"Soul's  Pilgrimage,"  and  shows  the  struggle  of 
people  through  several  lives,  at  several  differ 
ent  periods  of  the  earth 's  history.  It  is  full  of 
Eastern  atmosphere  and  philosophy.  At  first  I 
am  an  empress — loving  lust  and  power  and  the 
beauty  and  glory  of  the  material  world — steal 
ing  men's  souls  from  them,  and,  Circe-like,  turn 
ing  them  into  brutes.  One  who  loves  me  I  wound 
to  the  death,  and,  too  late,  try  to  undo  my 
wrong.  In  the  next  act — incarnation,  life — I  am 
a  peasant  girl — with  a  heart  of  gold — and  he,  in 
stead  of  being  lowly  born,  is  a  lord,  who  mis 
treats  me.  I  die  for  him  in  absolute  devotion — 
expiating  the  wrong  I  did  in  the  past  life — the 
previous  act.  In  the  third  act  we  start  equal — 
modern  man  and  modern  woman — with  modern 
problems  to  solve — and  that's  the  story,  the  real 
story.  The  rest  is  atmosphere,  background, 
motive — twilit  ages,  evolving  principles,  the 
strain  that  is  akin  to  all  ages  and  all  peoples 
running  through  the  whole — the  Struggle  Up. 

18 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"Some  call  it  Evolution, 
And  others  call  it  God." 

The  actor  whom  Mrs.  Chester  asked  down  to 
assist  us  in  "putting  it  on,"  says  the  first  act 
is  fine  melodrama — the  second,  poetic  tragedy— 
the  third — he  throws  up  his  hands  and  says  it 
is  something  between  a  play,  a  menagerie,  and  a 
Wagnerian  opera  score,  and  that  it  would  re 
quire  a  genius  or  a  madman  to  properly  pro 
duce  it.  (I  think  he's  the  latter.)  But  the 
author  has  taken  up  motive  after  motive,  thread 
after  thread,  woven  them  in,  finished  them  off. 
It  is  as  interesting  as  fairyland — or  the  Bible — 
and  almost  as  hard  to  believe. 

But  I  accept  it  without  thinking — just  throw 
ing  myself  into  the  spirit  of  the  part — each  part 
— three   women — one    soul — and    its    progress 
through  the  ages — to  where  we  are — with  a  hint  i* 
of  what's  beyond. 

And  I  am  as  happy  as  a  schoolgirl  these 
splendid  autumn  days.  Since  the  night  of  the 

19 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


fire,  when  the  wharf -houses  and  the  ship  burned, 
we  two,  the  Comte  and  I,  have  seemed  to  share  a 
secret — yet  there  is  nothing  really — it  is  only 

"Eyes  on  eyes!  and  voices  breaking  still, 
For  all  the  watchful  will, 
Into  a  kinder  kindness  than  seems  due 
From  you  to  me,  and  me  to  you." 

Already!  And  I  have  only  known  him  seven 
days ! 

November  6th. 

Only  seven  days!  I  wrote  that  yesterday, 
and  now  I  am  trying  to  realize  that  it  is  so 
short  a  time.  It  seems  as  if  we  had  known  each 
other  always.  Of  course  we  have  been  together 
almost  constantly,  rehearsing,  and  the  play  has 
led  to  intimate  talks.  But  still  our  mutual  sym 
pathy  and  understanding  is  wonderful.  Even 
Enid  Cross  is  noticing  it.  Enid  is  my  best 
friend,  of  course,  and  a  dear  among  women ;  but 
best  friends  have  sharp  eyes,  and  she  isn't  yet 
so  absorbed  in  her  love  affair  with  Ted  Eed- 

20 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


mond  as  to  be  wholly  oblivious  of  me.  It  is  an 
noying  to  be  given  advice  by  one's  juniors. 
Enid  is  seven  years  younger — let  me  remember 
that  for  my  chastisement.  To-day  she  said: 

"  Junia,  if  you  weren't  married,  I  should  say 
you  have  made  the  catch  of  the  season — before 
the  season  really  begins ;  but  as  you  are,  don't 
let  the  Comte  become  serious — men  are  so  pecu 
liar,  you  know. ' ' 

And  I  answered,  quite  vexed:  "Don't  be  ri 
diculous,  Enid;  it's  childish  to  imagine  two 
grown-up  people  are  serious  because  they  have 
a  pleasant  friendship  and  much  in  common. ' ' 

Enid  answered  wickedly:  " Everything  in 
common — except  your  husband  and  his  wife ! ' ' 

"Has  he  got  one?"  I  asked,  aghast. 

"He  did  have,  but  whether  she's  dead  or  di 
vorced  I  don't  know.  Anyway,  you've  got  Rich 
ard " 

Dear  old  Dick !  I  hadn't  even  thought  of  him 
for  three  days ! 

21 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


All  this  is  appalling.  If  there  were  any  one 
on  earth  I  could  tell  it  to,  I  shouldn't  be  writing 
it  here — but  I  can't  speak  of  it  even  to  Enid.  A 
girl  brought  up,  as  she  is,  in  an  absolutely  con 
ventional  way,  is  really  the  best  friend  for  me, 
I  suppose.  Her  worldly  sense  and  discretion 
balance  my  lack  of  both. 

Yet  it  isn't  that  I  despise  conventionality — 
only  I  disregard  it.  She  is  just  the  right  mix 
ture  of  sentiment  and  sense. 

But  what  is  happening  to  me  ?  I  am  not  my 
self  any  more — I  have  not  my  own  old  thoughts 
and  gaiety  and  spirit.  I  feel  very  still.  What 
is  different  in  me?  It  is  as  if  I  had  changed 
the  furnishings  of  all  my  house,  and  no  longer 
recognized  it  in  its  new  aspect.  It  is  like  that 
in  my  mind — it  is  happy — heavenly  happy ;  but 
the  thoughts — the  feelings — the  motives  of  it 
are  new  to  me.  I  sit  in  this  new  house  of  my 
mind,  and  I  see  that  it  is  very  still — and  wait 
ing — for  what? 

22 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


Meanwhile  our  work  goes  on,  on  the  play. 
Enid  and  Ted  Redmond  are  charming  as  the 
old-world  lovers.  Theirs  is  the  light  and  happy 
love  theme;  ours  the  deeper,  sadder  one.  The 
Comte  handles  his  part  wonderfully — with  such 
conviction,  such  grace,  such  poetry  and  suggest- 
iveness.  When  I  look  at  him  I  do  not  wonder 
women  adore  him.  Poor  women!  They  see  so 
few  men  beautiful  enough  to  worship,  accom 
plished  enough  to  admire,  fine  enough  in  tex 
ture  to  compare  with  themselves.  Ted  is  an 
ordinary  type — very  attractive  just  now  be 
cause  he's  young  and  vital,  an  athlete  and  a 
gentleman,  because  he  hasn't  yet  lost  his  pris 
tine  faith  in  life  and  ideals.  But  in  five  years 
he  will  be  dulled;  in  ten  satiated;  in  fifteen  in 
terested  only  in  business;  and  in  twenty — fat 
and  boring  and  beefy — in  the  prime  of  life !  So 
it  goes.  Because  he  hasn't  temperament, 
poetry,  the  wide  culture  of  romance.  And  Enid 
— with  her  music  and  fire,  and  charm — how  will 

23 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


it  be  with  her  if  she  marries  him?  He'll  make 
her  a  good  husband — he'll  be  loyal  and  stolid 
and  true.  But  interesting?  Lord  preserve  me ! 
But  as  my  old-fashioned  grandmother  would 
have  said — and  I  believe  it  was  her  beau-ideal 
of  a  man: 

"He'll  be  a  good  provider." 

Materially,  yes;  but  mentally?  "Won't  she  go 
hungry  of  heart?  And  how  will  it  be  with  her 
then?  Hush!  How  is  it  with  me? 

November  7th. 

I  had  a  letter  from  Dick  to-day,  in  which  he 
mentions  the  Comte.  "I'm  rather  surprised," 
he  wrote,  "to  hear  he's  Mrs.  Chester's  guest, 
for  he  hasn't  the  best  reputation  in  the  world. 
A  man  is  generally  judged  by  the  way  he  treats 
women — and  I  gather  De  Toreyne  has  not  treat 
ed  them  very  well.  He  belongs  to  a  fast  Euro 
pean  set,  and  I  hate  to  think  of  your  ever  being 
mixed  up  with  them.  I  shall  be  back  next  week 

24 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


and  want  you  at  home.  I  have  succeeded  in 
establishing  the  Chicago  and  St.  Louis  connec 
tions,  and " 

The  rest  was  business  and  bored  me,  and  the 
first  disturbed  me.  But  after  all,  what  does  it 
matter?  The  play  will  be  over  in  another  week, 
and  so  will — so  will  everything  else. 

But  I  can't  believe  the  Comte  is  anything  but 
what  he  seems,  and  that  is — why,  almost  a  boy ! 
He  is  the  very  incarnation  of  the  Spirit  of 
Youth,  confident  yet  strangely  unconfident,  gay 
yet  melancholy — which  is  like  youth,  too — full 
of  contradictions,  of  variety.  He  had  an  En 
glish  mother,  he  told  me.  That  mixture  of  races 
would  account  for  the  elusive  double  nature  I 
feel  in  him.  He  has  a  personality  that  is  close 
to  genius.  He  writes  beautiful  verse,  he  knows 
music — can  both  write  and  execute  it.  He 
speaks  three  languages  easily,  and  knows  the 
literature  of  each.  With  such  a  brain  and  tem 
perament  he  should  produce  something,  stand 

25 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


for  something  in  the  world  of  art.  I  wonder  if 
he  will? 

Some  day  he  will  tell  me  his  story — why  he  is 
here — what  his  hopes  and  plans  are — and  many 
other  things. 

November  9th. 
"We  sat  late,  late,  talking  of  many  things," — 

after  the  others  had  gone,  and  the  fire  had  died, 
and  the  wintry  dawn  had  begun.  You  make  my 
heart  ache  with  your  story.  "Mother,  and 
child,  and  friends — but  a  man  needs  something 
more."  Dear,  dark  head,  did  you  really  lie  in 
my  lap  for  a  moment  and  confess  that — or  was 
it  a  part  of  the  unbidden  dream  that  sat  at  my 
feast  of  memory  afterward?  I  am  full  of 
troubled  happiness ;  your  tears  have  drawn  mine 
— the  first  I  have  shed  in  years — in  a  passion  of 
pity  for  you.  Your  heart  has  drawn  mine — and 
your  lips.  Would  I  could  help  you — would  I 
could  give  you  all  you  need — if  I  am  the  *  *  some- 

26 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


tiling  more" — but  it  is  not  mine  to  give.  I'm 
already  given  in  marriage — though  I  know  now 
I  am  not  possessed.  Ah,  Sweet,  there  are  des 
tinies  that  should  never  cross,  and  ours  belong 
to  that  kind.  They  meet  like  flint  on  steel,  but 
the  spark  leaves  both  cold  until  they  meet  again 
— unless  they  meet  again.  I  would  you  might 
kiss  me  good-night,  and  say  again  I  am  "The 
Blessed." 

November  10th. 

Too  happy  a  week  to  write  about.  How  our 
friendship  grows !  We  are  so  alike,  we  two,  in 
many  ways,  in  our  humour,  in  our  melancholy, 
in  our  splendid  animal  spirits,  in  our  tastes  and 
natures — only  I  haven't  your  brilliancy  of  brain, 
and  I  suspect,  dear  gentleman,  you  haven't  my 
depth  of  heart.  Yours  is  like  spring — full  of 
lilt  and  change  and  everlasting  youth.  The  fall 
is  closing  into  winter. 

"November,  the  old,  lean  widow, 
Sniffs,  and  snivels,  and  shrills," 

27 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


but  a  merry  little  moon  looks  whistfully  down 
on  us  o '  nights,  and  there  are  the  cozy  twilights 
and  the  good  talks.    Oh,  what  have  I  ever  done 
,to  deserve  such  happiness? 

December  6th. 

"We  have  been  walking  on  a  precipice  in  the 
dark!  Suddenly  came  a  light,  and  showed  us 
where  we  were — and  then — an  instant  of  dizzi 
ness  and  suspense — and  I  felt  myself  falling, 
falling — and  then  I  opened  my  eyes  with  a  long 
shudder  and  found  myself  safe — still  on  the 
edge,  but  still  safe.  I  am  so  afraid!  If  one 
should  become  so  fascinating  by  gazing,  that 
nothing  in  the  world  should  seem  so  worth  while 
as  to  explore  those  depths ! 

We  are  too  near  the  brink,  Heart's  Heart. 

When  you  said  to  me:  "How  I  want  you — 
how  I  need  you ! "  it  was  a  cry  from  the  heart — • 
and  I  felt  that  I  was  mean  and  stingy  to  with 
hold  myself  from  you.  When  I  remember  the 

28 


THE  WOMAN  HEKSELF 


hunger  of  your  look,  I  am  dizzy  again.  It  was 
such  a  little  moment  we  were  left  together — a 
little  moment  ticked  out  in  heart-beats. 

Great  red  roses  full  of  scent  and  colour  were 
in  the  room.  The  sense  of  them  wrapped  me 
about  to  exclusion — like  music — like  prayer. 
There  was  soft  starlight  without — and  a  silent 
house.  And  the  great  need  between  us  grew  till 
it  swept  up  together — who  knows  how? — and  I 
heard  you  whisper,  as  your  arms  crushed  me:/ 

' '  Give  yourself  to  me. ' ' 

I  loved  the  delirium  and  pain  of  your  entire 
embrace,  but  after  a  second  I  put  it  from  me, 
my  hand  against  your  breast,  and  stood  apart 
from  you,  and  reaching  deep  for  breath  I  heard 
my  heart  say : 

"I  would  give  my  body  for  your  delight,  and 
my  whole  soul  for  your  service,  if  I  could  with 
out  hurting  you — without  calling  you  from  your 
best  and  highest."  I  was  hardly  conscious  the 
words  had  passed  my  lips  until  you  caught  my 

29 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


hands,  bowed  your  head  in  them,  and  dropped 
to  your  knees  before  me. 

A  "I  am  yours,"  you  said,  ''in  whatever  way 
you  will.  Yours  to  love  and  have,  or  yours  to 
love  and  leave.  And  you  are  mine — my  great 
lady.  What  will  you  have  of  me?" 

You  were  still  kneeling  with  your  head  against 
my  hand,  and  I  answered: 

"Your  chivalry  to  my  weakness — that  longs 
to  meet  your  need,  but  may  not  'lest  other  eyes 
go  weep  and  other  lives  lie  broken.'  Help  me, 
like  a  true  gentleman — like  a  Chevalier!"  And 
I  made  you  rise  and  face  me. 

"Is  that  what  you  really  want?"  you  asked 
keenly.  "No;  but  it's  what  I  want  to  want," 
I  confessed,  and  you  smiled  into  my  eyes,  an 
swering  : 

"I  will  be  your  Chevalier,  then,  your  true 
knight,  till  you  want  of  me — something  else!" 

What  splendid  audacity  he  has ! 
30 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


November  13th. 

It  is  late,  late,  and  I  am  sitting  alone  watch 
ing  the  dawn  creep  in.  The  play  is  over — over 
and  done.  They  said  it  was  a  great  success. 
They  said  the  audience  was  electrified  at  the 
close  of  the  second  act,  when  the  peasant  girl 
climbs  up  upon  the  cross  where  her  lover  is 
hung  that  his  agony  may  be  mitigated  by  the 
last  touch  of  her  lips.  He  has  been  a  thief,  and 
a  traitor,  and  hanging  is  none  too  bad  for  him — 
yet  he  has  held  her  to  death  and  beyond.  She 
kisses  him,  and  kills  him  to  end  his  agony — and 
for  this  the  multitude  stones  her  to  death.  I 
remember  crying  out  in  a  gasp:  "You  cannot 
hurt  him,  you  God-accursed!  For  I,  who  love 
him,  have  killed  him  ! ' '  And  then  the  cry  of  her 
departing  spirit:  "Ernando!  Ernando! — wait, 
I  am  coming! — wait  for  your  little  Manelle!" 
The  last  picture  is  of  her  defending  him  with 
her  body  from  the  assaults  of  the  mob — her  arms 
stretched  along  his  arms,  her  breast  against  his. 

31 


I  only  know  I  was  half  dead  and  shuddering 
when  the  curtain  fell.  I  had  lived  it  to  the  last 
ounce  in  me,  and  would  have  fainted  if  you  had 
not  held  me,  brought  me  back  by  your  warm 
magnetism.  But  when  I  reached  my  dressing- 
room  I  was  trembling,  throbbing  with  the  strug 
gle  to  keep  something  down  in  me  that  would 
beat  against  the  bars  of  my  heart  like  a  wild 
animal..  I  sent  Felice  away  lest  she  should  see — 
should  guess. 

Well,  it  is  over — all  over — this  strange,  wild 
thing  that  has  come  into  my  life.  Soon  we  will 
go  on  our  separate  ways.  Yet  since  your  con 
fession — since  my  reply — since  our  triumph  over 
ourselves — how  I  love  you! — how  I  love  you! 
'  *  Oh,  a  thousand  times ! "  as  you  said.  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  write  it,  since  I  can  write  it  with 
out  shame.  We  faced  our  temptation  and  with 
stood  it ;  an  honest  man,  an  honest  woman.  And 
now  it  is  over.  I  have  no  more  fear.  Soon  I 
shall  go  back  to  my  home,  take  up  my  life,  live 

32 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


it,  fill  it,  as  best  I  may.  And  you  will  go  back 
to  your  beautiful  art,  my  Poet,  my  Painter,  and 
both  life  and  art  will  be  the  richer  because  we 
have  loved  each  other,  yet  have  not  smirched 
that  love.  You  have  meant  to  me  the  poetry  of 
the  world.  "The  vision  and  the  dream"  of  a 
man  strong,  yet  beautiful ;  fine,  yet  full  of  weak 
ness  ;  gifted  of  the  gods,  yet  squandering  those 
gifts  like  a  child.  You  cry  out  to  the  latent 
motherhood  in  me,  as  well  as  to  the  waking,  pas 
sionate  woman.  By  all  roads  you  reach  my  soul 
— yet,  good-night — good-by!  It  is  like  saying 
good-by  to  youth — but  we  must.  No,  it  is  not 
"worse  than  that,"  as  you  said;  it  is  that 
Youth  is  over — gone  with  your  last  kiss  out  of 
my  life.  Good-by!  God  love  you — as  I  may 
not! 

December  10th. 

So  now  we  are  to  be  friends.    Why  not,  since 
the  greater  contains  the  less? 

33 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


December  20th. 

Since  we  all  have  returned  to  town,  and  meet 
but  seldom,  I  miss  you,  dear  my — friend,  I  miss 
you  more  when  I  am  with  you  in  the  company 
of  others  than  when  I  am  without  you  in  the 
company  of  my  thoughts  of  you.  This  evening 
in  your  rooms  how  pleasant  it  was !  Even  Dick 
liked  you.  Your  thought  of  us  each  in  books 
with  the  marked  passages  that  catch  the  eye — 
suited  to  each — your  narcissus  blossoms  which 
I  love  so  much,  and  your  dear  charm  pervading 
it  all,  yet 

Christmas  twilight — and  soon  your  step  on 
the  stairs — the  rapid  step  I  know  so  well.  No 
Christmas  was  ever  so  happy  as  this  in  which 
you  come  to  my  house.  .  .  . 

Later. — And  there  you  were,  dear  lad,  with 
your  merry  eyes  and  your  quick,  warm  kiss, 
and  your  arms  full  of — plum-pudding!  Fancy 
your  making  it  for  me  yourself — sacred  be  the 
bowl  that  holds  it ! 

34 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


How  happy  we  were  * '  all  among  the  red  ber 
ries"  and  boughs,  in  front  of  the  fire  that 
warmed  the  twilit  room!  And  that  magnetic 
moment  when  we  two  were  alone,  and  you  kissed 
me  suddenly  under  the  mistletoe!  I  tried  to 
laugh  it  off:  "Oh,  well,  since  it  isn't  real," 
I  said,  and  you  interrupted : 

"But  if  it  is  real!" 

"Is  it,  dear  gentleman?"  I  just  breathed. 

"You  know." 

Out  of  the  warm  twilight  came  these  words 
of  wonder.  Your  love  for  me  real! — real!  It 
cannot  be,  yet  I  hug  them  to  my  heart,  and  live 
them  over  and  over.  They  flash  in  the  dusk  of 
my  brain  like  jewels,  and  their  setting  is  your 
arms — their  gold  your  voice — their  light  your 
eyes — their  warmth  your  lips  on  mine. 

Oh,  though  we  may  never  be  anything  to  each 
other  but  friends — yet — touch  of  hand,  and  eyes 
on  eyes!  We  shall  know! 

"Never  has  any  one  come  so  close,"  you  said. 
35 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  shall  still  be  '''close"  to  you,  Beloved,  wher 
ever  you  go,  though  I  never  see  you.  I  will  watch 
your  career,  and  help  it  and  you  in  every  way  I 

can.  And  for  love  of  you  there  is  no  weary  man 
I 

or  woman,  or  little  child,  in  all  the  world,  who 
shall  not  share  my  bounty,  when  they  need  it 
and  I  can  give  it.  For  love  of  you,  every  sinner, 
every  enemy,  shall  have  a  second  chance — and 
a  third — and  a  seventy-seventh,  as  I  would  that 
every  one  should  give  to  you !  For  love  of  you 
all  music  is  deeper,  is  richer,  and  the  hearts 
that  love  me,  and  that  I  love,  have  become  trans 
figured.  Oh,  for  love  of  you,  all  attainment  is 
possible  and  worth  accomplishing,  just  for  the 
sake  of  a  light  in  your  eyes,  as  they  rest  on  me 
in  some  moment  God  will  give  me  in  the  far 
years  when  I  shall  say  to  Him : 

* '  Oh,  if  this  that  I  have  done  is  worthy,  let  it 
count  to  him  who  inspired  it  all,  who  was  my 
star  to  steer  by — my  music  on  the  march— my 
crown  of  compensation  at  the  end. ' ' 

Would  I  might  lead  my  king  to  his  crowning ! 
36 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


January  15th 

Dear  day !  How  I  hate  to  see  you  die !  You 
were  the  quintessence  of  youth  and  joy.  Four 
of  us — Enid  and  Ted  and  you  and  I — all  in  one 
mood ;  the  music,  the  laughter,  the  teasing — the 
fun  that  is  the  salt  of  life.  And  then  the  tremu 
lous,  fateful  twilight  hour  when  we  had  sepa 
rated  into  couples.  "It  isn't  fair  to  me,  and 
I  am  going  away,"  you  said.  "Come,"  and 
held  open  the  door  for  me.  What  perversity 
was  it  that  made  me  deliberately  turn  my  back 
upon  it  and  walk  over  to  the  window?  And 
what  made  you  say  in  the  dusk — out  of  the  si 
lence  :  1 1  Oh,  my  dear !  We  are  here  such  a  little 
while — and  young  such  a  little  part  of  that — 
can't  we  be  good?"  What  tempter  made  me 
answer:  "Oh,  don't  philosophize — live!"  How 
frightened  I  was  at  my  own  words,  until  I  felt 
myself1  rocked  in  your  arms,  and  your  lips  on 
mine  just  breathing :  ' '  That 's  what  I  wanted  to 
do." 

37 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


Did  you  lead  me,  or  did  I  lead  you?  It  was 
you  who  said :  ' '  Oh,  how  much  we  missed  when 
we  were  together ! ' '  and  I  who  answered :  * '  Let 
us  miss  no  more,  then.  Let  us  live  our  life  so 
that  when  we  look  back  we  can  say  '  We  had  our 
hour'." 

"Are  you  sure  you  will  never  regret  it?"  you 
asked  me,  and  I  answered:  "Ah,  yes — all  my 
life!  But  we  shall  have  had  an  hour  worth  a 
whole  life's  regret." 

"Do  you  want  that  hour  soon— to-morrow?" 
That  overwhelmed  me.  I  had  not  thought  of 
anything  so  immediate,  so  definite  as  that.  * '  No, 
no, ' '  I  said ;  ' '  for  when  I  have  had  you  it  will 
be  over.  I  shall  lose  you.  We  shall  grow 
apart. ' ' 

"No,"  you  said,  "that  sort  of  thing  brings 
people  closer  together.  But  will  I  still  be  your 
'dear  gentleman,'  your  Chevalier?  Oh,  don't 
take  your  good  opinion  away  from  me.  I  need 
it.  I  need  it. ' ' 

38 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


And  then  the  others  came  in,  and  we  went 
away;  but  as  you  put  my  cloak  on,  you  whis 
pered  an  appointment.  What  will  come  of  it  I  I 
dare  not  think  of  next  Tuesday  night — a  sudden 
weakness  comes  over  me  when  I  do. 

/      "A  sigh  sent  wrong, 

A  kiss  that  goes  astray, 
A  sorrow  the  year's  end  long, 
So  they  say. 

So  let  it  be! 

Come  the  sorrow,  the  kiss,  the  sigh! 
They  are  life,  dear  life,  all  three; 
And  we  die. 

January  19th 

I  am  waiting  for  you  all  alone — oh,  I  am  long 
ing  for  you !  Your  voice,  your  eyes,  your  arms ! 
Your  voice  on  the  stairs,  your  eyes  in  the  door 
way,  your  arms  just  over  the  threshold — my 
Love — my  Joy  of  Life !  I  am  in  a  delirium,  but 
it  is  not  all  happiness — it  is  fear,  suspense ;  yet 
it  is  like  a  bride's,  my  heart.  I  have  put  on  my 
prettiest  gown,  all  white  lace  and  ruffles,  as  you 
like  it — and  with  a  suggestion  of  green,  as  you 

39 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


like  it,  too.  Oh,  shall  I  be  beautiful  in  your 
sight,  Beloved?  Others  say  so,  but  will  you?  I 
must  ask  you  this  some  time.  I  have  always 
forgotten  it  before,  and  you  have  forgotten  to 
tell  me.  We  have  had  so  much  more  important 
things  to  talk  about — God  bless  us ! 

How  beautiful  the  room  looks  as  it  waits — 
waits  for  you !  The  flowers,  the  ferns,  the  fire 
light,  the  wee  white  kitten  and  the  big  collie 
playing  sweetly  together — oh,  I  feel  as  if  the 
common  old  things  are  alive  for  this  once  and 
know  you  are  coming,  and  are  glad  with  me ;  for 
my  Heart's  Desire  is  my  own  at  last,  and  "his 
desire  is  toward  me." 

There  is  your  ring.  You  are  early,  Beloved, 
as  lovers  should  be,  and  my  arms  they  are  open 
to  you. 

"I  am  my  Beloved's,  and  his  desire  is  toward 
me." 

Well,  I  did  not  count  the  cost. 
40 


I  gave  myself,  my  best,  my  truest,  to  your 
"heart's  need" — as  you  said.  That  was  an 
appeal,  Chevalier!  Stronger  women  than  I 
would  have  been  obliged  to  yield  to  it. 

What  a  great  gap  the  threshold  bridged !  But 
once  over  it — ''I  love  you,  and  I  shall  not  be 
sorry."  The  world  swam  for  a  moment,  then 
faded  utterly,  and  there  was  left  only  you — only 
you. 

Ah,  that  threshold !  What  different  things  it 
separated!  On  the  one  side  the  past — and  the 
peace  of  goodness — with  the  pain  of  desire.  On 
the  other,  joy — and  the  price  of  joy.  It  is  a 
great  price,  but  it  is  worth  it,  because  it  is  the 
most  precious  thing  in  all  the  world. 

To-night  my  life's  emotions  reached  high- 
water  mark.  I  did  not  know  we  could  feel  such 
joy  while  we  are  still  mortals.  Oh,  come  what 
may,  I  shall  never  regret  it.  You  have  shown 
me  the  reality  of  things — everything  else  is  un 
real. 

41 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"These  things  are  awakenings,  and  one 
doesn't  awake  all  at  once,"  you  said. 

Good-night.  I  am  full  of  pain  that  is  torture 
— pain  that  is  ecstasy — pain  of  your  giving, 
therefore  most  precious.  What  was  once  my 
brain,  separate,  distinct,  is  submerged  in  this 
ocean  of  feeling — a  powerless,  buried  continent. 
What  was  my  body  is  beyond  my  volition,  and 
what  was  my  heart  is  yours.  My  last  strong 
holds  gone !  You  are  an  obsession — your  spirit 
on  mine,  like  the  sun  on  the  earth.  I  have  no 
feeling  apart  from  you.  This  is  the  miracle, 
complete  and  overwhelming,  of  which  I've 
heard,  but  never  known  till  now.  I  knew  I 
should  one  day.  I  knew  you  would  come.  And 
though  I  heard  your  step  go  down  the  stairs, 
and  leaned  over  the  bannisters  to  drink  in  the 
last  look  of  your  upturned  eyes,  to  my  thought 
you  are  here  still,  so  real,  that  in  my  bed,  with 
its  one  pillow,  I  shall  fall  asleep  in  your  arms. 
I  have  the  sense  of  them  all  about  me,  and  put 

42 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


down  my  pen  to  yield  to  you — and  sleep.    Be 
loved — my  well  Beloved ! 

January  27th. 

"I  gazed  into  the  mist,  and  fear  came  on  me; 
Then  said  the  mist:  '  I  weep  for  the  lost  sun.'  " 

"Every  meanest  day  is  the  conflux  of  two 
eternities." 

The  eternity  of  the  past — the  eternity  of  the 
future — and  to-day,  the  slim  bridge  between 
them.  The  bridge  shall  break  and  cast  us  into 
one  or  the  other  of  these  abysses.  But  to-day, 
at  least,  shall  not  endure.  Terrible  to-day !  Go, 
go,  and  let  me  forget  your  ignobility.  Since  this 
that  is  all  to  me  is  worth  no  sacrifice  to  you,  you, 
too,  my  love,  must  go.  Our  ways  divide.  You 
"will  take  no  risk,"  you  say,  "for  my  sake." 
So!  You  mean  you  will  dare  nothing.  I  am 
not  worth  it  to  you.  And  do  you  know  what  I 
would  dare  ?  I  would  dare  to  go  to  him  and  say : 
"Set  me  free,  for  my  heart  is  not  in  my  mar- 

43 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


riage.  Forgive  me,  amd  set  me  free."  And  he 
would  do  it.  But  since  you  will  not  let  me  do 
this,  it  must  be  good-by  for  us.  Oh,  what  can  we 
save  from  the  wreck  of  our  hearts?  Isn't  there 
any  driftwood  even  to  be  picked  up  and  made 
into  a  little  fire  to  warm  our  cold  souls  by? 

February  24th. 

The  day  is  over  and  the  night  has  come.  0 
sweet,  swept  sky  of  spring,  with  a  hurrying  half- 
moon  !  0  changing  moon !  0  changing  world  I 
0  poor  heart  of  mine,  more  steadfast  than  any 
thing  it  knows ! 

"Tout  passe,  tout  casse,  tout  lasse,  et  Dieu 
s' amuse."  All — all — heart's  love,  heart's  hate, 
heart's  delight,  and  heart's  despair — will 
heart's  desire,  too? 

Oh,  this  bitterness  of  giving  all  to  one  who 
has  not  valued  it!  And  yet,  in  spite  of  that,  I 
am  glad — glad.  It  is  not  given  to  many  to  love 
a  great  man.  I  have  seen  your  soul,  Beloved. 

44 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  must  always  love  it;  however  it  belies  itself, 
however  it  cramps  and  hampers  itself  by  its  lack 
of  knowledge  in  the  struggle,  however  it  debases  \ 
itself  or  hurts  me,  still,  by  some  strange  law,  I 
must  always  love  it,  since  I  have  seen  it.  There 
are  our  precious  memories,  not  to  be  exchanged 
for  anything  this  side  of  heaven,  and  perhaps 
not  for  anything  on  the  other.  "And  happier 
am  I  than  the  first  spring  days ' ' ;  but,  ah !  they 
are  never  happy  to  those  who  wake  and  remem 
ber  in  the  night. 

February  25th. 

For  all  you  have  meant  to  me,  Dearest,  in  our 
few  short  days,  how  can  I  thank  you?  For  all 
you  have  opened  up  to  me  of  broader  views, 
stretching  my  sight  to  farther  horizons,  and 
touching  them  all  with  gold,  how  can  I  thank 
you?  If  it  were  not  for  this  one  last  memory! 
Oh,  if  you  would  efface  it — if  but  that  could  be 
destroyed — how  bravely  I  could  face  all  the  fu 
ture,  bare  and  terrible  as  it  is,  without  you !  But 

45 


that  last  memory,  that  "meanest  day,"  crushes 
and  suffocates  me.  All  the  years  will  be  scarred 
with  it.  It  was  cruel — it  was  cruel,  and  I  had 
not  deserved  it.  "I  will  never  fail  you,"  you 
had  said — yet  how  you  failed  me ! 

I  have  tried  to  excuse  and  explain  you  to  my 
heart,  championing  you  against  my  reason,  but 
I  cannot.  It  is  the  knife  in  the  wound,  and,  oh, 
Beloved,  was  not  the  wound  itself  enough! 

Some  day  this  will  seem  to  me  utter  bathos. 
We  do  not  vividly  remember  pain  when  we  are 
well.  I  have  a  tiny  scar  on  my  left  thumb  that 
I  got  from  a  too  eager  movement  to  beg  you 
not  to  quarrel  with  me  once.  Your  cigar  burned 
it,  and  I  hardly  felt  it,  while  you  were  full  of 
commiseration  for  the  silly  little  hurt.  "Well, 
there's  the  scar,  which  is  blest,  because  you 
cared  about  it,  but  this  other,  this  deeper — it 
is  not  blessed,  and  I  don't  believe  you  know  how 
hard  it  hurts. 

No  more  of  this  forever.  I  had  to  cry  out  my 
46 


heart  here,  for  it  is  the  only  kind  of  expression 
left  me  now.  But  now  I  will  not  remember  it. 
Only  you,  the  beauty  and  sweetness,  the 
strength  and  the  weakness  that  I  knew  and 
loved,  and  that  knew  and  loved  me,  only  these 
I  shall  keep  in  my  heart  for  you  for  always. 

March  1st. 

The  first  day  of  spring.  0  Heart's  Life, 
Heart's  Love,  how  far  away  you  have  gone! 
Are  you  really  in  the  same  town,  under  the 
same  sky?  Do  you  walk  the  same  ways,  and 
leave  no  sign  of  it  for  me,  who  follow  after? 
0  dear  God,  the  hunger  in  the  beauty  and  the 
uplift  of  the  spring!  "And  the  blossoming 
cometh  on,  the  burgeoning,  the  cruel  flowering" 
— all  come,  but  you,  Beloved,  who  are  the  very 
spirit  of  spring! 

Later,  1  A.  M. 

I  have  been  talking  with  one  who  has  suffered 
and  endured,  and  the  greatness  of  his  heart  has 
shamed  my  littleness.  He  only  showed  me  little 

47 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


pieces  of  his  love  for  another  woman;  but  the 
ideality  of  it,  the  unquestioning  confidence,  the 
happiness  without  hope!  And  I  have  been 
grumbling  at  the  hurt,  begging  to  be  released 
from  the  pain  of  unsatisfied  desire.  He — this 
gentle  old  man — has  passed  that,  and  says  that 
love  is  its  own  reward,  is  greater  than  the  parts 
of  it — desire  and  pain — and  that  once  having 
seen  the  soul  of  the  loved  one,  nothing  it  did  for 
good  or  bad  made  any  difference.  Have  I  not 
seen  your  soul,  Beloved,  your  weary,  striving, 
failing,  reaching,  reviving  soul?  And  then  to 
have  doubted!  My  dear,  my  dear,  though  you 
may  never  know,  I  say  to  your  heart:  " For 
give  ! ' '  Forgive  me  for  judging.  I  am  only  in 
the  primer  of  this  great  art  of  loving.  But  I 
will  learn.  Only  don't  take  from  me  my  ideal, 
and  I  will  learn  step  by  step  to  love  greatly,  un- 
askingly,  purely.  So  I  shall  have  you  again, 
Beloved,  reinstated  in  my  thoughts — my  own, 
my  own — to  keep. 

48 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


March  8th. 

We  had  our  hour,  but  at  what  a  cost  to  all  the 
other  hours  of  a  life !  Here  is  the  spring  back 
again,  and  oh  for  the  clasp  and  close  of  your 
arms,  and  oh  for  your  voice  and  eyes ! 

I  am  not  high,  but  only  human.  I  cannot  do 
with  this  ' '  ideal ' '  love.  I  want  You.  Oh,  I  want 
you  so — your  kisses,  your  words,  your  looks — 
the  beautiful  all  that  is  you — else  what  is  the 
use  of  the  spring  to  me? 

March  llth. 

How  little  we  must  all  seem  to  ourselves  at 
times — as  though  our  little  pain  were  worth  so 
much  crying  over  in  the  big  abstract  of  things ! 
We  lose  too  much  our  sense  of  proportion,  and 
there  is  no  beauty  in  us. 

Selfishness  is  only  our  lack  of  sense  of  pro 
portion;  that  is  why  it  is  so  vastly  ugly. 

I  do  not  think  it  would  be  so  hard  to  die  of 
love  as  people  to-day  think ;  but  it  would  be  as 
unbrave  as  suicide.  We  must  go  on  with  the 

49 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


weary  dancing  of  our  appointed  measure. 
"You  look  so  frail — don't  catch  cold  and  get 
p-neumonia  and  die,"  said  one  of  my  friends, 
with  sweet  solicitude,  and  "No  such  luck,"  I 
replied.  How  silly  it  was!  We  should  do  our 
dancing  better  and  not  show  the  strain. 

I  cannot  have  my  Heart's  Desire.  Well,  then, 
I  will  inquire  what  is  the  next  best  thing  to 
ask  of  life — the  next  best  thing  to  strive 
for.  It  is  strange  how  much  harder  it  is 
than  it  was  ten  years  ago.  Youth  and  illusion 
and  promise  were  so  real  then.  It's  harder  now, 
and  one  backslides  oftener  and  farther,  and  it 
all  seems  futile,  and  we  grow  weary  sooner.  But 
we  mustn't,  we  mustn't,  we  mustn't!  We  must 
shake  off  this  deadly  inertia  of  indifference,  and 
get  our  nerve  back  again,  lest  we  dishonour 
those  who  love  us. 

When,  nightly,  I  come  in  front  of  your  dear 
dark  eyes — sad  eyes  they  are,  my  Tree  of 
Knowledge — they  seem  to  inquire  of  me  what  I 

50 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


have  done  in  the  day,  how  deserved  you  should 
have  loved  me  ?  And  very  poor  answers  I  bring 
you.  You  seem  to  have  dwarfed  my  powers  for 
a  time — but,  oh,  they  would  rise  at  your  bidding, 
would  you  but  come  and  tell  them  what  to  do. 
When  I  asked  you  what  there  was  left  to  live 
for,  you  said  you  didn't  know,  even  you  who 
have  lived  so  much!  Dear,  do  you  think  if  we 
might  have  taken  each  other's  hands  in  the  dark, 
do  you  think  we  might  have  found  the  light? 
Vain !  We  must  walk  our  separate  roads. 

Good-night,  dear  Eyes;  I  am  so  very  tired. 
Forgive  me  for  not  having  done  any  good  in 
your  name,  or  for  love  of  your  friendship,  to 
day.  I  was  so  tired.  It  is  just  a  month  since 
I  woke  from  a  dream.  It  is  a  year  in  my  heart 
and  my  heart  is  grey. 

Good-night,  dear  Eyes. 

March  18th. 

He  was  right.  The  greatest  things  in  char 
acter  are  bigness — and  gentleness;  bigness  of 

51 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


outlook,  of  perception,  of  sympathy — and  gen 
tleness,  and  the  two  go  hand  in  hand.  What  if 
we  had  but  an  hour?  Was  there  not  enough  in  it 
to  make  food  for  a  life  ?  Beloved,  if  my  life  may 
show !  But  I  am  only  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  not 
a  doer  of  deeds.  Gentle  I  am — but  big?  I  am 
only  a  woman  without  a  woman's  primal  oppor 
tunities — destiny.  The  biggest  thing  a  woman 
may  do  is  denied  me.  Will  it  forever  be  de 
nied  ?  Is  it  in  the  denial  of  all  that,  that  I  may 
perhaps  grow  bigger  ?  And,  oh,  even  to  be  great, 
would  it  be  worth  the  loss  of  that  magnificent 
pride  and  happiness  ?  But  I  may  not  choose ;  I 
must  accept.  I  am  not  big  in  anything  but  love 
for  you.  Is  it  true,  as  some  one  says,  that  this 
passion  of  sex  is  not  the  greatest  happiness  in 
life?  For  men,  perhaps,  it  is  not;  but  for  wom 
en?  Instinct  is  so  strong,  and  intellect  com 
paratively  weak  in  us.  We  are  born  to  be  some 
man's  companion — and  then  some  man's  moth 
er;  and  when  destiny  thwarts  us,  something  is 

52 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


perverted  in  our  innermost  nature.  There  are 
reaches  in  your  soul  I  cannot  follow,  Beloved, 
yet  all  in  mine  you  know.  You  know  its  use 
less  thrift,  its  harvestless  husbandry.  I  know 
no  words  for  it — so  terrible  a  thing — the  pent- 
up  force  that  should  be  expended  in  making 
beautiful  souls  and  bodies,  turned  back  wasted, 
useless.  And  to  feel  oneself  full  of  possibili 
ties — passionate  possibilities!  If  I  could  only 
translate  the  force  into  some  other  plane  of  our 
marvelous,  many-sided  being — if  I  could  make 
children  with  my  brain — books,  poems,  music! 
How  timid  we  are  of  circumstance — how  inade 
quate  our  codes!  How  impossible  our  natural 
instincts  in  their  environment  of  circumstance 
and  code !  And  this  is  the  old  woe  of  the  world, 
and  other  philosophers  than  I  have  harped  on 
it  until  we  grow  somewhat  weary.  Ah,  how  shall 
we  get  the  most  out  of  life?  Live  it  to  the  hilt, 
with  the  hilt  in  God's  hand?  Or  stifle  it  with 
smothering  sheets  of  our  own  manufacture? 

53 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


What  is  the  real?    We  are  so  various!    What 
is  the  real?   Ah !    He  showed  me — once. 

March  26th. 

I  am  going  away,  going  to  bury  myself  in 
some  new  work,  going  to  try  to  forget,  going  to 
take  myself  by  the  shoulders  and  push  myself 
roughly  into  the  business  of  the  world,  going  to 
stop  hoping,  vapouring,  whining,  dreaming — 
even  thinking.  Going  to'  work.  But  I  will  see 
you  once — just  once — first. 

April  1st. 

Spring — and  meeting !  Ah,  you  commonplace 
words !  How  little  you  show  the  heart-lift  that 
lies  behind — the  assurance  of  love  and  faith — 
the  touch  of  the  great  things  of  life — the  great 
joy — the  great  pain !  To-day  and  to-morrow — 
so  different ;  to-day,  that  is  all — to-morrow,  that 
is  nothing ;  to-day,  the  oasis — to-morrow 

April  2d. 
The  desert.    You  have  gone. 

54 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


May  7th. 

And  now  to  forget.  We  may  not  meet  nor 
know  each  other 's  hopes  and  plans  and  prayers. 
I  know  that  others  will  come  near  to  say  the 
things  that  once  I  said,  to  uphold  you  with  the 
strong  belief  and  trust  that  once  I  gave  you,  and 
which  you  loved  from  me  alone.  Into  your  life 
I  may  not  enter,  but  only  watch  it  softly  from 
afar.  Yet  do  not  quite  forget  me,  my  Beloved. 
In  your  book  of  life  turn  down  the  page  you 
gave  to  me,  and  look  back  at  it  often.  But  I 
must  not  look  back,  lest,  like  Lot's  wife,  I  turn 
into  a  pillar  of  salt — the  salt  of  crystallized 
tears.  Forward  for  me — forward — to  see  if  I 
may  not  save,  or  make  some  worthy  thing  to 
rise,  phoenix-like,  from  the  wreck  of  all  the 
fair,  sweet,  frail  things  that  were.  Ah,  what 
can  be  as  fair  as  those  old  ideals  and  illusions? 
Life,  you  have  taken  them  away,  and  given  me 
nothing  in  their  place.  Fate,  in  the  hand  you 
withhold  have  you  something  even  more  worth 
while? 

55 


June  10th. 

I  am  at  Mrs.  Chester's  again,  and  the  place  is 
full  of  memories.  Here  we  kissed  each  other 
for  the  first  time — only  last  November.  I  re 
member  how  after  the  others  had  gone  upstairs, 
and  the  fire  had  died  down,  you  first  told  me  of 
yourself,  how  you  put  your  head  in  my  lap — 
my  Child!  and  told  me  of  your  mistakes  and 
follies.  Oh,  my  Dear,  I  wish  I  had  not  come 
back  here,  it  is  so  memory-haunted!  How 
happy  we  were !  The  dreams  we  dreamed,  the 
books  we  read,  even  the  quarrels  we  quarreled, 
and  the  prayers  we  prayed  together — weren't 
they  all  dear  to  you  as  to  me?  At  this  very 
table  you  sat  shaking  your  head  a  little  over 
a  wee  poem  I  had  written,  there  you  read  me 
your  play,  here  you  wrote  in  "Hawthorn  and 
Lavender"  for  me,  and  gave  it  to  me.  But  I 
was  going  to  forget,  Chevalier!  Ah,  here  I 
named  you!  I  must  leave  this  place,  it  is  too 
full  of  you.  I  feel  that  even  the  stone  of  the 

56 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


porch,  and  the  bench  where  we  sat  awaiting  the 
carriage  that  grey  wintry  dawn,  remembers 
and  longs  for  you,  as  I  do — as  I  do ! 

June  28th. 

Good-by,  Dearest  of  All — even  in  thought,  I 
must  leave  you.  Out  in  the  future  where  I  must 
live  you  only  hamper  me,  sending  your  long 
shadow  over  my  spirit.  Sun  of  my  little  day, 
how  long  the  shadow  is  you  cast,  ere  you  sink 
out  of  sight.  In  my  night  which  follows,  there 
shines  only  the  pale  moon  of  my  desire,  with 
reflected  light  from  you.  Good-by,  Dearest  of 
All.  I  lean  my  cheek  against  the  chair  where 
your  dear  head  rested,  and  the  slow,  difficult 
tears  come — not  the  copious  ones  that  relieve 
and  refresh  the  heart,  after  hot,  midsummer 
experiences,  but  slow,  smarting  ones,  that  do 
not  distort  the  face,  but  grey  the  hair.  I  must 
lose  you  out  of  my  life.  Your  memory  cripples 
me.  You  didn't  want  me  enough.  But  I  can't 

57 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF. 


lose  you  out  of  my  soul — to  that  your  memory 
gives  wings !  I  would  not  give  even  my  sorrow 
for  any  one  else's  joy,  nor  my  past  for  any  one 
else's  future.  But  "much  is  to  learn,  much  to 
forget  ere  the  time  be  come" — for  what?  And 
the  years  are  few,  and  I  must  hurry.  Good-by, 
my  Beloved — till 

July  3d. 

But  the  truth  is  tearing  me — is  beating  at  the 
bars  of  my  brain,  and  will  break  them  down  if 
I  do  not  release  it.  One  may  sin,  but  one  may 
not  go  on  sinning.  My  soul  cries  out  for  absolu 
tion  for  the  sin  that  it  has  renounced.  Absolu 
tion?  From  whom?  From  the  one  sinned 
against.  Ah,  my  husband — it  would  break  your 
heart,  your  pride,  your  life — I  cannot  do  that! 
What  have  you  ever  given  me  but  the  best 
things  in  your  power?  Such  care,  such  devo 
tion — how  did  I  ever  wander  from  it?  I  cannot 
conceive — except — the  intimate  call  of  the  one 
destined  voice!  There  was  no  resisting.  We 

58 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


both  tried — and  because  he  did  not  care  so  much 
as  I — did  not  dare  so  much  as  I — we  put  it  from 
us  very  soon.  It  is  behind  me  now — why  should 
I  confess  it? 

Yet  the  truth  is  tearing  me.  When  I  sleep,  I 
dream — that  the  scarlet  letter  is  branded  on  my 
heart,  and  that  when  I  go  home — go  back  to 
my  husband — he  will  see  it  there — and  know 
without  my  telling. 

Oh,  I  am  afraid — afraid!  Afraid  I  shall  be 
found  wanting  in  the  courage  to  confess. 

July  7th. 

I  think  the  last  few  days  have  been  the  most 
awful  that  I  have  lived  through  in  even  this 
awful  year!  After  the  long  struggle  and  inde 
cision — after  tears — how  many !  and  nights  not 
slept  through  at  all — after  the  weary  miles  of 
walking  up  and  down,  back  and  forth — finally 
came  decision.  Yet  I  was  so  afraid  that  at  the 
last  moment  I  would  not  have  the  courage  to 

59 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


confess,  that  some  quibble  of  conscience  would 
confuse  me,  that  I  forestalled  my  own  cowardice 
by  writing  Eichard  just  before  I  left  Mrs.  Ches 
ter's.  "Don't  expect  any  happiness  from  my 
home-coming.  There  is  none  for  us.  I  have 
something  so  grave  to  tell  you  that  it  will  change 
our  lives." 

And  all  the  way  home  in  the  train  I  wondered 
how  I  should  do  it,  and  if  I  ought — if  it  would 
not  be  braver  to  live  the  lie  out  to  the  end — to 
take  my  husband's  love  and  homage  and 
worldly  goods  just  as  if  I  deserved  them,  to 
cheat  him  of  a  fair  return  of  all  he  has  invested 
in  me.  ' '  The  truth  he  knows  will  hurt  him  more 
than  the  truth  he  doesn't  know,"  I  argued  pas 
sionately  to  myself.  And  then  I  remembered 
my  letter,  and  thanked  Heaven  I  had  put  the 
possibility  of  flunking  behind  me. 

Eliza  met  me  at  the  door  and  smiled  a  wel 
come.  "Mr.  Trent  is  waiting  for  you  in  the  li 
brary,  ma'am.  He  was  too  late  for  the  train," 
she  said. 

60 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


Strange  how  trifles  come  back  to  one.  I  had 
my  little  traveling  bag  in  my  hand,  and  when 
she  would  have  taken  it  from  me  I  kept  it,  feel 
ing  I  must  have  hold  of  something,  and  went 
swiftly  upstairs  with  it  in  my  grasp.  With  a 
great  throb  of  the  heart,  I  stopped  for  a  mo 
ment,  leaning  against  the  library  door.  Then  I 
turned  the  handle  and  went  in. 

Eichard  had  been  standing  at  the  window. 
He  turned  with  hands  outstretched  to  me,  and 
spoke  in  the  full,  kind  tones  I  know  so  well. 

"Well,  dear,  it  is  good  to  have  you'* — then  he 
stopped,  looking  at  my  face,  and  I  saw  the  lines 
of  his,  strained  and  anxious,  deepen  into  fur 
rows  of  pain. 

I  had  not  taken  off  my  hat,  nor  put  down  my 
traveling  bag.  I  just  stood  leaning  against  the 
closed  door,  trying  very  hard  to  speak  evenly, 
but  only  managing  to  get  the  words  out  in 
strange  little  jerks.  I  said  very  quietly  that  I 
had  not  come  home  to  stay,  because  I  had  done 

61 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


.  .  .  the  forbidden  thing  for  a  wife  to  do. 
I  heard  the  silence  reverberate  the  words 
..  .  .  till  they  grew  like  a  shouting  in  my 
ears.  .  •  *  .  And  still  I  stood  and  waited. 
*  .  .  When  nothing  happened,  after  a  long 
time,  I  turned  blindly  to  go  out,  and  then  came 
the  grave,  kind  voice : 

"Well,  dear  girl,  you  don't  think  I'm  going 
to  desert  you  in  the  worst  trouble  of  your  life, 
do  you?" 

And,  God !  that  broke  me. 

If  he  had  struck  me,  choked  me,  killed  me,  but 
to  pity  me — to  be  kind  after  I  had  given  him 
such  a  heart-blow !  Ah,  if  I  could  have  spared 
Mm!  That  is  what  I  regret  now — too  late;  not 
the  sin — that  was  sweet;  not  the  cost — it  was 
worth  it — but  the  suffering  it  caused  an  inno 
cent  man — a  great,  gentle  heart  that  I'm  not 
worth.  The  truth  is  not  as  good  as  it  seems. 
And  yet  he  had  to  _know. 

He  came  to  me  and  took  the  bag  out  of  my 
hands. 

62 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"Sit  down,"  lie  said  quietly.  "Now,  tell  me, 
if  you  want  to,  about  it.  Who  is  the  man?" 

"Oh,  no  one  you  know,"  I  said  hurriedly, 
evading  his  eyes,  which  were  fixed  on  me. 

"That  won't  do." 

I  was  silent. 

"Junia,  who  is  the  man?" 

"Dick,"  I  said  desperately,  getting  up,  faint 
and  miserable  with  memory,  "it  can't  matter 
to  you  who  he  is ;  he  is  not  in  my  life  any  more. 
I  have  sent — no,  he  has  gone  away.  It  was  only 
— only " 

He  interrupted  with:  "But  you  care  for  him 
— you  love  him?" 

I  could  not  answer. 

"Don't  you  see,  Junia,"  Eichard  went  on, 
' '  that  I  can 't  help  you  if  you  don 't  trust  me  I  I 
must  know  who  he  is — what  he  proposes  to  do 
— what  you  wish  me  to  do." 

"Oh,  Dick,  whatever  you  will.  It  is  for  you 
to  say.  You  are  the  wronged  one.  As  for  him, 

63 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


he  doesn't  know;  lie  doesn't  dream  I  would  tell 
you " 

"Why  did  you  tell  me?"  my  husband  asked, 
curiously. 

Suddenly  I  knew  why — with  deep  instinct  I 
knew.  It  was  not  from  any  high  motive  of 
honour,  as  I  had  deceived  myself  into  thinking, 
but  the  deep  sex-instinct  of  a  woman,  to  keep 
herself  inviolate  after  the  touch  of  the  one  lover. 
Ah,  that  was  it!  Love,  who  have  known  my 
body,  and  my  soul,  it  was  for  that.  I  wanted 
to  keep  that  last  touch  of  you.  I  could  not  lose 
that.  I  couldn't  go  back.  Marriage  would  have 
seemed  a  profanation  without  love — as  love 
seemed  a  sacrament  without  marriage.  But 
though  I  thought  this  in  a  second,  I  said  very 
low:  "I  couldn't  belong  to  you  both." 

I  felt  rather  than  saw  my  husband's  face 
twist  with  pain.  After  a  second  he  said:  "And 
you  want  to  belong  to  him? ' ' 

And  the  shame  of  the  answer  I  had  to  give ! 
64 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


"No,  Dick,  no;  he — doesn't — care  enough — to 
marry  me." 

I  remember  how  Dick,  who  had  been  walking 
up  and  down  the  floor,  stopped  dead. 

"That  cannot  be,"  he  said  incredulously. 
"You  would  not  give  yourself  to  a  man  who  did 
not  love  you — as  you  must  love  him — more  than 
anything  else  in  the  world.  You  are  not  that 
sort  of  woman,  Junia.  You  are  too  big — too 
fine." 

I,  who  had  also  been  walking  up  and  down 
at  the  end  of  the  room,  sank  down  wearily. 
"No,  Dick.  It  was  a  mistake  on  his  part.  He 
got  carried  away.  But  it  was  only  a  passion 
with  him — a  passing  passion;  and  with  me — 
with  me " 

"With  you  it  was  love,"  Dick  said  for  me, 
with  wonderful  quietude. 

"Yes." 

"By  God!"  he  cried  suddenly,  his  eyes  blaz 
ing  blue,  "he  shall  marry  you,  or  I  will  shoot 
him  on  sight.  Junia,  name  him!" 

65 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  summoned  the  last  ounce  of  my  energy. 
11  Never,"  I  answered,  standing  strong  and 
straight,  and  facing  my  husband.  "Never.  I 
had  to  get  square  with  myself,  but  I  have  no 
right  to  insist  on  his  getting  his  share  of  the 
blame  and  the  trouble.  I  told  you  of  my  wrong 
toward  you,  and  am  prepared  to  stand  whatever 
consequences  there  may  be  for  myself.  But  I 
cannot  drag  him  in.  He  has  nothing  more  to 
do  with  me.  This  lies  between  you  and  me, 
Dick." 

Dick  came  over  to  me — he  even  put  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder  as  he  answered :  ' '  But  you  love 
this  man,  and  for  that  reason — only  for  that,  he 
has  to  be  considered.  A  woman  like  you  does 
not  give  love  lightly;  it  is  sought  and  won — 
hard — and  when  it  is  won,  against  all  the  in 
stincts  of  her  birth  and  breeding,  and  against 

all   her    ingrained   principles God!"    he 

cried,  his  hands  clenched  tight,  "if  you  did  not 
love  him,  Junia,  I  should  kill  him.  For  I  know 
who  he  is!" 

66 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


Again  I  had  that  suffocating  heart-throb; 
and  then — he  named  you — and  I  denied  you. 

"It  is  the  Comte  de  Toreyne,"  he  repeated. 

And  again  I  denied  it. 

"You  cannot  deny  it  again,"  he  said,  curi 
ously  standing  close  to  me,  "for  the  third 
time " 

"I  can,"  I  answered,  looking  straight  into  his 
eyes — "for  the  third  time  and  the  thousandth 
time." 

He  clenched  his  hands  again. 

"You  are  the  man  of  the  two,"  he  said.  "So 
a  man,  in  chivalry,  lies  for  a  woman.  I  never 
heard  of  a  woman  doing  it  for  a  man  before. 
You  would  save  him — from  what?" 

"From  the  consequences  of  my  voluntary 
confession,"  I  answered — then  stopped,  ap 
palled.  I  had  acknowledged  the  name  after  all. 

But  Richard  was  so  preoccupied  and  sure, 
he  didn't  even  notice  it.  He  was  walking  up 
and  down,  his  hands  behind  him,  his  face  drawn 
into  deep  lines  that  I  had  never  seen  before. 

67 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  was  exhausted,  and  sank  into  a  chair,  wait 
ing,  and  as  I  did  so  I  felt  a  cold  nose,  followed 
by  a  furry  head,  thrust  into  my  hanging  hand — 
and  there  was  Thane,  our  Scotch  collie,  humbly 
petitioning  for  a  caress.  He  knew,  with  his 
wonderful  instinct,  that  something  was  very 
wrong,  and  he  had  waited,  with  the  courtesy  of 
a  gentleman,  while  affairs  of  magnitude  were 
being  discussed,  till  there  came  a  lull,  when  he 
felt  that  something  so  unimportant  as  a  dog 
might  be  noticed.  And  suddenly  looking  into 
his  great  gold-brown  eyes,  full  of  devotion,  and 
seeing  also  the  familiar  room,  where  everything 
spoke  to  me — it  all  came  over  me — how  much  I 
had  given  up — and  for  nothing.  I  sank  down 
on  the  rug,  my  arms  about  Thane,  and  cried 
into  his  shaggy  neck.  They  were  great,  wrench 
ing,  sick  sobs  and  I  couldn't  stop — until  I 
caught  sight  of  Dick's  face,  and  then — 

1 '  Oh,  Dick, ' '  I  said, ' '  let  us  end  this.  I  will  go 
away  and  you  can  get  your  divorce.  Forgive 
me,  if  you  can,  but  let  me  go." 

68 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


" Where?"  he  asked  gently.  " Child,  where 
can  you  go?  You  are  one  of  the  women  who 
must  always  be  looked  after.  You  have  no 
money.  What  can  you  dot  Where  can  you 


It  was  true.  I  had  nothing.  Nevertheless,  I 
knew  I  must  go,  and  that  I  must  go  alone. 

"But  do  not  worry,"  my  husband  went  on. 
"I  will,  of  course,  look  after  you,  see  that  you 
do  not  want — until  the  divorce  is  got.  Then  I 
shall  expect  to  hear  of  your  marriage." 

"Oh,  no,"  I  said,  appalled. 

"Do  you  think  he  would  dare  deny  me  that 
satisfaction?"  blazed  Richard.  "However  he 
may  poach  and  steal — do  you  think  he  would 
dare  refuse  to  do  what  I  dictate?  Have  no  fear 
for  him.  But  you,  Junia — my — wife — that  you 
— you  of  all — women — you  were  so  far  above — 
all  this "  his  voice  broke. 

"Richard,"  I  said,  trying  to  keep  my  voice 
steady,  "don't  blame  me  too  much — I  couldn't 

69 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


help  the  love — so  what  does  the  expression  of  it 
matter?  Let  me  blame  myself,  but  do  not  you. 
Let  God  judge  me,  but  do  not  you.  I  have  been 
many  kinds  of  a  fool,  and  a  weak  fool  too,  but 
I  have  stood  on  my  own  two  feet,  spoken  the 
truth — accepted  the  consequences — and  chosen 
the  hard  path  at  last — and  I  am  sorry  for  noth 
ing — except  that  I  am  not  sorry !  And  this  be 
cause  my  love  was  big,  is  big,  big  enough  to 
sin  for,  to  suffer  for,  to  live  for — too  big  to  be 
sorry  for,  ever.  For  it  I  have  given  up  every 
thing,  honour,  position  and  your  affection, 
which  I  know  was  my  very  own — and  which  was 
dearer  to  me  than  anything  else — until " 

"And  don't  you  see,  dear,"  he  interrupted, 
his  poor  voice  shaking,  "don't  you  see  it  is  be 
cause  I  feel  your  big  sincerity  that  I  am  stand 
ing  by?  I  can't  forgive — not  yet — but  I  shall 
stand  by,  and  look  after  you — until  you  marry 
him." 

"Richard,  I  shall  never  do  that.  How  could 
70 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


I?  He  doesn't  want  me  enough — for  that.  He 
wants  me — but  not  marriage.  It's  too  high  a 
price — for  him  to  pay — for  any  woman. ' ' 

"You  say  this — you  realize  this — and  yet  you 
love  him?"  he  cried,  amazed. 

"What  has  it  to  do  with  love?"  I  asked. 
'  *  That  is  an  involuntary  thing.  He  is  of  a  dif 
ferent  race,  a  different  temperament  from  us, 
and  looks  at  things  differently.  But  I  will 
marry  no  man  under  such  conditions.  Neither 
will  I  live  with  you  under  such  conditions. 
There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  go  my  own 
way — alone." 

"Junia,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "I  begin  to 
think  I  have  never  known  you." 

"I  begin  to  think  I  have  never  known  myself 
till  now,"  I  answered. 

There  was  silence  between  us. 

"I  will,  of  course,  look  after  your  needs,"  he 
was  beginning,  but  I  stopped  him. 

"No,  Dick,  dear,  I  couldn't  let  you.  I  can't 
71 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


take  anything  from  you.  I  thank  and  bless  you 
for  your  great  thought  for  me  and  for  all  the 

things "   I  broke  off  again,  but  after  a  little 

was  able  to  go  on.  "But  I  have  to  stand  by 
myself — I  see  quite  clearly  that  it  is  the  only 
decent,  honest  thing  for  me  to  do.  I  have  a 
few  hundreds  in  the  bank — and  before  it  is  gone, 
I  shall  find  some  way — and  meanwhile  I  can 
stay  with  my  old  friend,  Polly  Meredith.  She 
is  alone  just  now  and  she  would  love  to  have 
me  share  her  little  flat  with  her." 

"And  he!"  said  Dick. 

"He  is  in  Europe  now.  When  he  returns  I 
will  write  to  him  for  my  letters,  and  return — 
some  little  things — and  that  is  all.  Surely,  Dick, 
surely,  by  doing  this  I  can  pay  for  both." 

"Oh,  go!"  he  cried  suddenly.  "Go,  Junia,  I 
cannot  bear  it.  But  tell  him  to  keep  out  of  my 
sight — for  I  shall  kill  him  if  I  see  him.  Go !" 

I  turned,  and  Thane  bounded  after  me, 
anxiously. 

72 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"Take  the  dog,"  said  Richard  huskily,  "he 
will  make  it  less  lonely  for  you."  But  I  laid 
my  cheek  against  the  furry  one  and  whispered 
in  his  ear — and  when  I  looked  back  I  saw  he 
had  obeyed  me,  and  was  standing  at  his  mas 
ter's  knee — looking  after  me  with  mournful 
eyes. 

July  10th 

It  is  very  lonely — I've  lost  everything  and 
gained  nothing  but  the  ability  to  sleep  from 
having  told  the  truth.  I  have  even  told  Polly — 
because  it  didn't  seem  right  to  accept  her  hos 
pitality  under  false  pretences.  How  kind  she 
was — how  understanding — how  dear,  making 
me  as  at  home  in  her  tiny  flat  as  if  it  were  an 
honour  to  have  me. 

"So  it  is,"  she  said,  when  I  said  this  to  her. 
"It  is  an  honour  to  have  you  trust  me  so  com 
pletely.  ' '  Then  she  amazed  me. 

"Somehow,  Junia,"  she  said,  looking  at  me 
out  of  her  big,  blue,  far-seeing  eyes,  "somehow 

73 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  always  knew  you  would  live  out  your  tempera 
ment — it  isn't  an  American  one — it  is  foreign, 
deeper  and  different.  I  suppose  you  get  it  from 
your  Celtic  mother." 

Perhaps  I  do — but  it  doesn't  seem  much  to  go 
on  with.  I  wish  I  had  a  head  instead  of  a 
heart.  What  shall  I  do — what?  My  few  hun 
dreds  already  are  diminishing  fast.  Perhaps  I 
could  act.  But  I  should  hate  the  publicity  of  it 
— the  whole  story — the  divorce — and  the  reason 
— would  probably  all  come  out.  Perhaps  I 
could  learn  to  type  and  help  Polly  in  her  work. 
She  suggested  that,  kind  old  dear.  Oh,  how 
long  ago  it  seems  since  we  were  girls  together. 
She  is  away  for  a  few  days  now  and  I  am  all 
alone  in  the  tiny  flat.  I  had  a  cold  potato  and 
a  crust  (very  dry)  for  supper  to-night.  I  had 
to  laugh  a  little  as  I  ate  it,  it  was  so  dolefully, 
dismally  like  what  one  reads  about  the  way  of 
the  transgressor.  But,  fortunately,  there  was  a 
glass  of  cheap  claret  left  from  our  last  dinner 

74 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


together.  There  is  always  some  alleviation  of 
the  crusts — and  cold  potato !  One  must  be  eco 
nomical  when  one  is  living  on  one's  tiny  bank 
account. 

July  18th 

"I  know  not  if  the  gods  will  overthrow  me. 
I  have  very  sore  shame,  if  like  a  coward  I  shrink 
away  from  the  battle;  moreover,  my  own  soul 
forbiddeth  me.  Destiny  no  man  hath  escaped 
when  once  he  hath  been  born." 

I  am  back  in  my  old  home ;  in  my  girlish  bed 
room,  among  old  school  books.  Did  I  really 
mark  those  old  heroic  passages?  Was  it  really 
I?  Here  are  the  old  buff-coloured  walls.  The 
windows  that  look  out  on  the  changing  tides, 
and  the  blossoming  linden  trees — and  the 
stretch  of  lovely  green  that  slopes  to  the  water's 
edge — these  are  all  unchanged.  It  is  so  good  to 
find  them  so — to  listen  again  to  the  same  old 
sounds  of  wind  and  birds.  But  this  is  not  my 

75 


environment  now.    I  can  find  no  solution  to  my 
problem  in  these  peaceful  things. 

I  had  a  letter  from  Dick  which  made  my  eyes 
i  smart  and  brim  over.    When  I  could  see  again, 
I  read: 

"If  I  thought  it  any  use  I  would  say  come 
back,  and  let  us  bury  this  thing  between  us.  Old 
Dr.  Time  is  a  wonderful  healer  and  he  might 
cure  you  of  your  fever,  and  me  of  my  hurt.  I 
miss  you  very  much — so  does  Thane — and  many 
people  ask  for  you — already.  If  you  think  best, 
come  back.  In  any  case,  count  on  me,  as  always, 
to  do  whatever  is  best  for  your  interests." 

Oh,  Richard  of  the  fine,  big  nature !    You  are 
jthe  unconscious  background  against  which  I  set 
all  men — and  find  them  lacking. 

If  only  I  could  have  loved  you !  Why  is  it  we 
love  where  we  would  not,  and  may  not  where 
we  would? 

76 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


But,  oh !    I  want  to  be  real,  real,  real !    Good 
or  bad,  whichever  I  am,  I  want  to  be  real.    I 
will  go  back  to  Polly  and  ask  her  to  help  me  with 
her  deeper,  truer  insight.    She  was  not  shocked^ 
at  the  real  me.    She  understood. 

I  cannot  crush  out  this  love  that  is  in  my 
heart — hopeless  as  it  is — and  if  I  went  back  to 
my  old  life,  would  not  it  be  a  traitor  sitting  at 
our  hearth  side?  And  all  the  unfulfilled  desires 
and  possibilities  in  me,  even  though  I  gave  them 
no  expression — would  they  not  undermine  all 
hope  of  happiness  ? 

Chevalier,  Chevalier!  You  are  the  only  an 
swer  to  them.  If  you  would  but  come  back  and 
determine  my  course.  Say  you  want  me,  say 
you  need  me,  as  often  before.  You  cannot  have 
won  so  great  a  love  wholly  on  false  pretences. 
Yet  how  you  deceived  me !  I  thought  you  gave 
all  to  it,  as  I  did,  and  when  I  found  you  would 
risk  nothing,  sacrifice  nothing,  it  was  not  only  a 
hurt  to  the  heart — it  was  an  insult  to  the  brain. 

77 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


What  a  pitiable  fool  you  must  have  thought  me 
— and  how  I  have  hated  myself  for  not  being 
able  to  hate  you !  Yet  I  think  you  loved  me — 
all  you  could — so  little ! 

In  some  ways  a  mother's  love  and  a  mistress' 
love  are  not  so  far  apart — not  so  different  as 
they  would  seem.  Each  asks  so  little,  and  gives 
so  much.  A  man,  the  Scriptures  say,  cannot 
do  more  than  "lay  down  his  life  for  his  friend," 
\but  a  woman — ah !  a  woman — may  do  more.  She 
lay  lay  down  her  love  as  well  as  her  life.  And 
it  is  more  to  her  than  life ;  or  perhaps  they  are 
two  halves — love  and  life;  a  man  seldom  gives 
them  both,  but  a  woman — a  mother — or  a  mis 
tress — she  gives  both  to  the  man  she  loves. 

Brain  and  flesh  call  for  you.  If  I  go  on  to 
you — where  the  ways  divide — I  shall  at  least  lie 
no  more — be  real,  at  last — even  though  you  put 
my  soul  and  body  on  the  rack — as  you  will  do — 
well  I  know.  Yet  would  not  the  rack  I  deserve 
be  better  than  the  garden  I  have  lost  the  right 
to? 

78 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


If  you  only  really  cared !  If  you  only  needed 
me!  With  ever  so  little  to  build  on,  I  could 
build — but  with  nothing Ropes  of  sand. 

September  1st. 

I  am  back  with  Polly,  dearest  and  best  friend 
of  friends  in  this  time  of  my  great  need.  I  am 
trying  to  go  on  with  life  as  if  nothing  had  hap 
pened — trying  to  help  Polly  in  her  work.  I 
have  learned  to  type — which  is  useful.  Fortu 
nately,  in  these  summer  months  I  have  not  run 
across  our  friends,  and  have  not  yet  had  to  ex 
plain  my  situation.  But  soon,  soon  I  must  face 
it. 

Polly  and  I  spoke  of  it  the  other  night.  "Of 
course,"  she  said  in  her  thoughtful  way,  "most 
people  would  say  go  back  to  your  husband  and 
count  yourself  lucky  to  still  find  love  awaiting 
you,  for  you  did  him  a  great  wrong,  and  to  take 
you  back  he  must  give  up  his  pride  and  his 
revenge.  It  is  a  great  deal  that  he  should  pre- 
79 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


fer  you  to  those.    It  would  be  the  safe,  wise 
thing  to  do." 

"And  the  untrue  one,"  I  answered, 
i     "Why  untrue?" 

"Because  I  can't  feel  for  Dick  any  more — as 
I  did.  And  it  would  be  cheating  him — taking  all 
and  giving — nothing. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  see,"  dear  Polly  said,  gently. 

"And  then,"  I  went  on  recklessly,  "I  am  so 
afraid  of — my  needs  and  desires.  Dick  doesn't 
answer  them.  He  never  did.  But  they  were 
asleep  until — until — but  now  they  are  awake, 
Polly,  and  they  can't  be  answered  if  I  am  to  do 
right.  And  I  dare  not  trust  myself." 

"But,"  said  Polly,  "Love  isn't  the  only  thing 
in  life.  I  don't  even  think  it  is  the  best — no, 
really  I  don't."  Her  blue  eyes  smiled  sadly 
at  me.  "You  see,"  she  went  on,  "I've  had  my 
experience — so  I  can  speak  'as  one  having  au 
thority,  and  not  as  the  Scribes.'  I,  too,  thought 
it  the  only  thing  once — the  best  thing,  but  it 

80 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


isn't,  Junia,  dear.  There  is  work — the  gift  of 
self-expression  in  whatever  line  you  are  called 
to — and  there  are  friends — real  ones — who 
never  fail  you.  These  two  things  compensate. 
You'll  find  it  out  yourself,  dear,  when  the  vision 
is  gone,  and  the  dream  has  become  a  night 
mare." 

Not  one  of  Mrs.  Meredith's  friends  ever  got 
as  much  confidence  as  that  from  her.  But  I — 
somehow  I  knew  there  was  something  in  her  life 
deeper  than  she  could  speak  of.  Yet  she  was  a 
splendid  wife,  devoted  and  affectionate,  and  I 
don't  think,  up  to  the  day  of  his  death,  that  her 
husband  ever  realized  there  was  anything  or 
any  one  else  in  the  world  for  her  but  him.  She 
succeeded  in  doing  the  thing  I  failed  in  doing 
— in  keeping  down  herself,  "her  own  needs  and 
desires" — for  the  sake  of  the  word  she  had 
given  and  the  contract  she  had  undertaken  to 
keep.  I  knew,  too,  she  succeeded  in  keeping  the 
man's  friendship — the  other  man's — and  that 

81 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


seems  to  me  a  wonderful  thing  for  two  people 
who  should  have  been  lovers. 

September  3d. 

There  came  two  letters  to  me  to-day  which 
took  my  breath  away.  Dick's  read: 

"Junia,  I  want  you  to  come  home,  and  live 
in  our  house  as  becomes  you.  I  shall  not  be 
there.  I  have  established  a  residence  in  another 
State,  and  divorce  proceedings  can  be  begun 
at  any  time.  Meanwhile,  it  will  make  less  talk 
for  you  to  come  home.  A  man's  absence  can  be 
accounted  for  on  'business' —  woman's  not 
so  easily.  No  one  knows  anything  from  me,  so 
it  will  not  be  difficult  for  you  to  resume  your 
position  in  my  house,  until  you  are  legally  free. 
Meanwhile,  feel  so  in  all  ways,  and  if  you  want 
anything,  call  on  me  as  ever.  I  met  Toreyne 
the  other  day  at  the  club  and  told  him  I  should 
expect  your  marriage  to  follow  our  divorce." 

82 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


Then  I  opened  the  other  letter  which  had  been 
forwarded  me  from  my  home  : 


DEAE  JUNIA:  I  shall  call  on  you  to-mor 
row,  Tuesday,  at  five,  and  hope  to  find  you  at 
home. 

"  Yours, 

"VlCTOK  DE  TOBEYNE." 

To-morrow!  —  why,  that's  to-day!  I  gasped 
and  pushed  the  two  letters  across  the  table  to 
Polly. 

"You  had  better  go,  dear,"  she  said,  her  face 
very  grave. 

"What  shall  you  do?"  she  added. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered. 

But  I  think  I  do  know,  now  that  I  am  at  home 
again.  How  lonely  the  house  is,  and  there  are 
still  two  hours  to  live  and  wait  for  him,  whom 
I  shall  never  wait  for  again  in  all  my  life.  Two 
hours  —  and  the  moment  will  have  come.  Two 

83 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


hours,  and  youth  and  love  are  behind  me — for 
ever — their  passion  and  fervour — their  delight 
and  despair.  It  is  three  o'clock.  At  five  he  will 
have  come.  At  six  he  will  have  gone,  and  all 
goes  with  him  that  I  once  thought  made  life 
worth  living.  Stripped  of  glamour,  of  illusion, 
face  to  face,  I  shall  see  him,  for  a  moment — 
and  then — no  more  forever.  For  nearly  a  year, 
brain  and  heart  and  soul  have  belonged  to  him, 
been  tortured  by  him,  loved  him.  Now  they  must 
cast  him  out  forever.  I  must  forget.  He  has 
lain  between  my  breasts.  He  has  known  me 
body  and  soul.  I  have  been  burnt  in  the  flame 
of  his  desire.  We  have  dropped  to  our  knees 
and  prayed.  We  have  risen  to  our  feet  and 
talked  of  great  and  little  things.  And  now  I 
must  forget — since  I  cannot  hate  I  must  forget. 
God  help  me  to  find  the  other  things  in  life,  or 
in  mercy  take  life  itself  away ! 

In  less  than  two  hours  it  will  be  over — the 
Moment  of  the  years.    "Life  gives  us  only  mo- 

84 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


merits,  and  for  those  moments  we  give  our 
lives" — ah,  Chevalier! 

Later. 

He  has  come  and  gone — my  heart  is  like  ashes 
— burnt  out.  He  came  into  the  drawing-room 
with  his  irresistible  grace  of  manner,  and  held 
out  his  hand,  which  I  did  not  see.  For  a  second 
we  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes.  Then  his  fell 
— slightly  confused. 

"Sit  down,"  I  said  quietly,  and  sat  myself. 
"Now,"  I  continued,  "will  you  tell  me  just 
what  happened  between  you  and  my  husband  at 
the  club  the  other  day?" 

"He  called  me  aside,"  answered  the  Comte, 
looking  not  at  me,  but  straight  before  him,  * '  and 
said  I  might  find  myself  involved  in  divorce 
proceedings  between  you  and  him,  and  that  he 
should  expect  our  marriage  to  follow." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"Yes." 

"Didn't  you  answer?" 
85 


THE  WOMAN  HEBSELF 


"Oh,  yes,  I  was  so  stunned  that  I  couldn't  for 
a  moment,  but  then  I  said:  *  Certainly,  if  the 
lady  wishes.'  Do  you  wish  it,  Junia?" 

"No." 

He  looked  relieved.  "I  thought  you 
wouldn't,"  he  answered.  "We  simply  got  car 
ried  away — you  and  I.  But  it  was  not  serious 
enough  to  make  or  mar  a  life,  was  it?  You 
were  very  sweet — very  generous — to  me.  I 
shall  always  owe  you  my  devotion  and  thanks — 
more,  my  love  and  homage.  You  know  that, 
don't  you?" 

I  didn't  answer. 

" Don't  you?"  he  persisted. 

"You  told  me  all  that  last  winter — when  I 
broke  off  with  you, ' '  I  answered,  with  difficulty. 

"And  I  told  you  then,  if  I  remember,  that  I 
would  not  marry  any  woman  in  this  world  if 
I  were  free  again." 

"Are  you  free?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I  have  just  returned 
86 


THE  WOMAN  HEKSELF 


from  France.  Our  divorce  is  absolute.  She 
— the  late  Comtess — has  the  care  of  our 
daughter,  but  I  am  to  see  the  child  whenever  I 
like.  That  was  why  I  was  so  brutal  to  you  last 
winter — why  I  couldn't  yield  to  your  wishes, 
and  face  our  affair  openly — because  if  any  scan 
dal  had  come  up  then,  I  should  have  lost  all 
rights  to  my  daughter " 

"And  you  preferred  her?" 

"She  was  my  own — and  you  were  another 
man's  wife " 

"And  your  mistress,"  I  said  quietly. 

His  face  took  on  the  tender  melancholy  of  the 
perpetually  misunderstood  man. 

"Ah,  Junia,"  he  said,  "you  don't  know  what 
it  cost  to  give  you  up.  You  were  so  absolute 
about  it.  We  only  met  once,  you  remember, 
and  then  only  for  an  hour  or  two,  one  spring 
day,  after  you  broke  off  with  me." 

"I  remember,"  I  said,  still  very  quietly,  and 
the  scent  of  that  "one  spring  day"  rushed  over 

87 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


me.  A  poem  we  read — our  heads  together,  our 
lips  meeting  at  the  close — the  old  vertigo  came 
over  me,  just  to  think  of  it.  I  remembered  how 
he  put  his  hand  on  mine  and  said:  "With  a 
woman  like  you  to  inspire  one — believe  in  one — 
love  one — what  might  not  a  man  do  1 " 

Well,  that  was  spring  and  this  was  autumn. 

"I  wonder  how  he  discovered  it?"  the  Comte 
was  saying  when  I  shook  off  my  revery. 

"I  told  him,"  I  answered. 

He  fairly  leaped  to  his  feet  and  looked  at  me 
in  astonishment. 

"Why?  "was  all  he  said. 

I  looked  at  him  and  the  silence  grew  between 

us.    I  knew  he  was  a  point  finer  drawn  than 

< 
most  men — with  almost  a  woman's  perceptions, 

intuitions  and  ideals.  I  knew  he  had  a  heart 
tender  to  all  who  suffered,  whether  animal  or 
human.  But  I  knew,  too,  he  had  no  principle  to 
measure  by — and  so  I  could  not  tell  him  my 
reason — that  I  have  cried  out  to  these  pages 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


alone.  I  only  said  quite  gently:  "You  wouldn't 
understand  if  I  told  you,  Chevalier."  And  with 
the  childish  transition  of  mind  that  makes  him 
so  lovable,  he  cried,  delighted: 

"Ah,  you  call  me  by  your  name  for  me,  once 
more.  You  are  no  longer  angry  and  cold  and 
distant ! ' '  And  the  grave  question  passed. 

Suddenly  he  caught  my  hands  and  laid  his 
face  in  them. 

"Don't  be  angry,  dear  Lady  of  Mine.  It  has 
been  such  a  bitter  year — a  bitter  year  for  me. ' ' 
The  words  came  half  sobbing.  "I  have  lost 
everything — wife — home — position — property — 
child — and  now  you." 

Suddenly  a  thought  for  me  did  dawn  upon 
him. 

"What  will  you  do — if  we  do  not  marry? 
Will  you  return  to  your  husband  1 ' ' 

"Would  you  have  me?"  I  asked. 

"It  would  be  best — for  you,"  he  answered. 
"For  your  sake — to  save  your  name  and  your 

89 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


ultimate  happiness,  My  Dear,  My  Sweet,  I 
forego — I  give  you  back  the  love  and  happiness 
you  gave  to  me."  He  looked  very  noble,  very 
grave,  very  tender,  as  he  said  that,  and  con 
tinued  : 

' '  Only  sometimes,  remember — and  love  me  in 
your  thoughts — for  we  have  been  much  to  each 
other,  Very-Dear,  have  we  not!" 

He  would  have  taken  me  in  his  arms.  But  I 
couldn't  bear  it,  and  all  my  control  gave  way. 

"So  much,"  I  said,  "that  it  has  made  my 
life  all  different — so  much,  that  because  of  what 
I  gave  to  you,  I  can  never  give  anything  to  any 
other  man.  You  can  never  give  me  back  what 
you  took  away — all  I  have — home,  husband, 
honour — all  I  am — myself — just  a  woman  who 
loved  you.  Oh,  so  much  that  there  is  nothing 
left  for  me  but  to  go  my  way  alone  and  keep 
my  soul  and  body  pure,  for  the  sake  of  the  love 
they  held  for  you.  Others  have  cared  for  you, 
no  doubt,  and  will  care,  but  some  day — some 

90 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


time — when  the  ninth  wave  takes  you — and 
breaks  you — then  you  will  understand  no  one 
ever  loved  you  so  much  as  I.  ...  Now,  will  you 
please  go  T" 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  startled  second — and 
with  an  indescribable  gesture  of  humility,  bow 
ing  both  head  and  shoulders,  he  backed  out  of 
the  room. 

That  was  hours  ago,  and  now  I  am  sitting  in 
my  own  familiar  room,  thinking  of  all  it  has  held 
— Eichard's  wonted  cheery  call  from  the  adjoin 
ing  room  as  he  dressed  for  dinner;  the  privi 
leged  collie  with  both  paws  across  my  lap,  and  a 
wagging  tail,  as  Felice  did  my  hair.  Well,  they 
are  all  gone.  Even  the  wee  white  kitten  has 
grown  into  a  cat,  and  is  banished  to  the  kitchen. 
I  am  all  alone.  When  it  comes  over  me  how 
alone,  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  try  to  read.  I  have 
re-read  bits  of  "Paola  and  Francesca,"  of 
"  Arthur  and  Guinevere.'*  Poor  unhappy 
women  who  gave  where  they  should  not,  and  got 

91 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


what  they  would  not  in  return.  But  at  least 
— at  least  their  great  gift  was  valued — was 
treasured — was  returned  to  them  a  thousand 
fold  by  their  lovers.  It  was  not  all  in  vain. 
Ah,  God,  I  cannot  bear  it,  I  cannot  bear  it — 
the  waste — the  shame!  I  have  broken  the 
alabaster  box  and  spilled  the  precious  ointment 
at  the  feet  of  my  idol,  and  he  has  thought  it 
only  water — just  common  water.  And  I,  who 
walked  with  my  head  among  the  stars,  am 
grovelling  on  the  ground.  .  .  . 

It  is  later  now,  and  the  lights  are  out — and 
the  house  is  very  still — like  a  tomb.  In  all  of 
it  there  is  no  single  thing  awake  but  me.  Am 
I  awake,  I  wonder,  or  in  some  hideous  dream? 
For  my  soul  seems  like  a  great  dark  room, 
wherein  a  coffined  thing  lies.  It  has  been  buried 
alive.  It  is  death-tortured — not  at  peace — it  is 
my  dying  heart.  Oh,  God,  'let  it  die !  It  cries 
so — let  it  die.  Why  should  it  lie  awake  and 
cry  .  .  .! 

92 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


It  is  late,  but  I  dare  not  be  alone — I  will  tele 
phone  Polly.  I  am  afraid — of  myself. 

Polly  is  away,  the  sleepy  maid  says — and 
Enid  Cross  has  not  yet  got  back  to  town.  How 
few  there  are  when  it  comes  to  a  great  real  need. 
One  may  give  to  many — but  take  from  few. 

After  all,  what  does  it  matter,  my  little  life — 
to  any  one  but  me?  I  can  do — what  I  choose 
with  it — and  there  is  nothing  left  to  live  for.  I 
have  had  my  hour.  .  .  . 

Even  my  heart  has  stopped  crying  now — it  is 
still — and  dead.  I  cannot  carry  a  dead  thing 
around  with  me  in  my  live  young  body.  That, 
too,  must  go.  ... 

!  - 

How  simple  it  is!  This  book,  and  a  few  let 
ters  labelled  "In  case  of  death  burn  without 
reading,"  and  the  gas  pipe  that  connects  with 
the  reading  lamp,  at  the  head  of  my  bed,  dis 
arranged — and  it  is  quite  "accidental."  How 
simple !  If  it  would  hurt  any  one  else  I  would 

93 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


not  do  it — but  it  won't — much.  Richard,  yes, 
but  I'm  lost  to  Richard  anyway.  It  will  be  bet 
ter  for  him  in  the  long  run.  And  my  people  are 
so  far  away — and  our  lives  so  different — they 
will  never  dream — or  guess — or  know.  Their 
kind,  dignified  lives  are  so  far  removed  from 
the  convulsions  of  mine.  Yet  I  remember — oh, 
why  do  I  remember  now? — when  I  was  little, 
long  and  long  ago — carrying  such  a  bright  face 
to  school  and  play,  that  Grandma  called  me 
"Old  Happy-heart."  I  shall  never  hear  it 
again.  It  is  all  over  and  done. 

Ah,  God !  God !  somehow  the  years  slip  from 
me,  and  I  feel  like  a  child  standing  face  to  face 
with  You.  I  have  not  been  very  good — I  have 
not  learned  my  lesson — and  I  don't  want  to  go 
to  school  any  more — I  have  failed  to  pass. 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  You  set  us  too  hard 
tasks — giving  us  giant  forces  bigger  than  our 
selves  to  fight,  instead  of  foes  of  our  own  size. 
Is  that  fair?  You  know  best.  But  when  You 

94 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


come  to  judge,  won't  You  remember  I  was  a 
motherless  and  rather  lonely  little  girl?  And 
perhaps,  too,  You  will  remember  that  I  "loved 
much" — only  that  isn't  a  virtue,  because  I 
couldn't  help  it. 

I  would  ask  for  pardon — but  I  would  rather 
have  just  peace. 

October  llth. 

After  many  days — after  many  days — I  go  on 
again.  "What  it  has  cost,  this  decision !  All  but 
mere  life  itself.  The  deed  I  tried  to  do — the 
appalling,  awful  deed — why  was  I  stopped? — 
why  was  I  saved  from  it?  Oh,  just  to  have 
ended  it  all ! — but  it  was  not  to  be. 

If  Eichard  had  not  come  home  most  unex 
pectedly,  and  restored  me  to  consciousness  when 
it  had  all  but  left  me — if  he  had  not,  in  dumb 
misery,  watched  me  fight  back  to  life  and  endur 
ance  through  the  awful  day  that  followed — well, 
I  should  not  be  in  this  world.  If  he  had  not 
stood  by,  in  his  great-hearted  fashion,  never 

95 


condoning,  never  even  forgiving,  but  holding  out 
to  me  always  a  strong,  sustaining  hand,  I  should 
not  be  established  here  in  my  own  rooms,  up 
town,  near  my  dear  Polly.  So,  after  all,  I  owe 
everything  to  Dick — even  life — and  the  means 
of  life,  and  that,  too,  is  part  of  my  punishment. 

There  are  lives  so  tragic  and  wounds  so  deep 
that  they  cannot  be  cured  this  side  of  Heaven. 
At  first  we  think  they  will  kill  us,  and  wish  they 
might — then  pained  breath  comes  back — slowly 
— slowly — and  there  is  the  awful  weakness,  the 
realization.  Then,  still  slowly,  the  old  wounds 
heal  over  thinly,  but  remain  ever  tender,  ever 
sensitive,  and  none  know  how  they  bleed  inter 
nally. 

Even  the  bird  of  happiness  comes  back — but 
with  a  broken  wing.  He  will  never  fly  again. 
He  will  run  a  little,  trill  a  little,  but  his  song 
will  have  a  note  of  aching  remembrance  of  large 
spaces  which  his  wing  made  light  of  when  it 
was  strong  and  unstained — and  his  trill  will  die 

96 


away  on  the  half  tone — recalling  fuller  songs 
and  freer  feelings.  He  will  still  blink  in  the 
sun,  and  stare  in  the  starlight — this  bird  of 
happiness  of  ours — but  the  broken  wing,  it  can 
not  be  mended;  and  the  feathers  he  dropped, 
they  cannot  be  found.  Yet  we  are  glad  of  his 
song.  It  is  decent  as  a  bandage  tied  over  a 
wound.  And  none  would  know,  save  those  who 
have  known,  what  hurt  the  bandage  hides. 

How  brave  yet  false  a  face,  mere  decency 
must  wear! 

How  hopeless  it  is  and  how  bitter — how  un 
bearably  bitter!  Oh,  God!  God!  God!  If  You 
were  like  our  mothers,  when  we  cried  to  You, 
You  would  comfort  us — "kissing  the  place  to 
make  it  well"  in  Divine  healing.  Are  You  less 
than  our  mothers?  turning  the  face  of  a  sphinx 
to  our  distresses.  Our  'mothers.  I  never  knew 
mine,  but  I  could  pray  to  her,  instead  of  to  You, 
to  help  me  in  my  need,  to  understand  my  sor 
row,  to  teach  me  what  to  do.  Oh,  mother,  my 

97 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


mother,  you  died,  fortunate  you,  when  you  were 
younger  than  I.  One  can  but  die — and  who 
minds  that,  who  has  lived! 

Christmas. 

Only  a  few  days  left  of  this  strange  sad  year ! 
Only  a  day  or  two.  I  turn  back  and  re-read 
and  it  seems  to  me  all  is  said  that  can  be  said. 
Nothing  is  changed  in  my  heart.  Grief  sits 
where  joy  was,  but  the  heart  is  the  same.  I  love 
you — I  love  you. 

"Good  will  to  you,  Chevalier,  in  memory  of 
happy  day  last  year,"  my  telegram  read.  My 
Heart,  My  Heart,  when  you  kissed  me  there  un 
der  the  mistletoe,  were  we  not  happy?  How  did 
we  lose  each  other?  So  close  you  seemed.  Arms 
and  eyes  and  lips  joined  us,  and,  oh !  the  beauti 
ful  warmth  and  cheer  of  the  room.  You  seemed 
a  gift  of  God  to  me,  a  proof  of  His  grace — oh, 
if  only  you  had  cared — enough !  Why  did  you 
teach  me  to  give  all,  knowing  how  little  you  had 
to  give  me  in  return? 

98 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  have  taken  your  pictured  face  under  the 
mistletoe  in  this  empty  room  and  kissed  it  in 
memory  of  the  moment  when  you  made  me  tell 
you  how  I  thought  of  you  and  I  confessed  "My 
Heart's  Desire."  Oh,  for  one  little  crumb  of 
that  rich  feast — to  suddenly  find  it  now — now — 
in  this  moment  of  heart  hunger  and  need!  A 
word — only  a  little  word !  I  would  give  all  the 
passionate  kisses  and  all  the  dear  denials  for  a 
word,  now,  that  would  tell  me  you  still  have  a 
little  corner  in  your  soul  for  me.  It  is  that  I 
want.  A  lesser  love  will  not  content  me.  Give 
me  one  moment  of  your  Soul's  love — as  I  give 
your  hours  and  days  and  nights  of  mine — as  I 
shall  give  you  a  lifetime  of  mine !  A  moment 
like  those  when  we  knelt  together  and  prayed — 
I  have  never  prayed  since  except  for  you.  A 
moment  like  that  when  you  said:  "I  have  done 
wrong — but  I  have  not  loved  it.  My  heart  was 
pure."  They  pile  up  as  I  think  of  them.  God 
give  me  ease  from  this  phantom  feast  of 
memory  when  I  am  hungry ! 

99 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


Cold,  driving  storm,  cold  grey  twilight,  and 
I  am  alone  with  my  Ghost  of  Love. 

December  26th. 

To  force  back  the  pain,  to  shake  off  the  in 
ertia,  to  work  purposefully  while  one  must — or 
as  long  as  one  may.  All  around  me  are  evi 
dences  of  love  and  friendship,  tokens,  letters, 
messages  from  thousands  of  miles  away,  Aus 
tralia,  England,  Italy  and  close  at  hand,  the  di 
vining  thoughts  of  others  very  dear.  Oh,  I  am 
ungrateful  to  be  so  sad ;  it  is  wrong,  but  I  do  not 
often  express  it  except  to  these  pages.  Here  I 
am  real — a  rare  luxury  in  this  world  of  masks. 

Late,  late,  late  last  night,  in  the  driving  snow, 
I  walked  under  your  window.  God  knows  what 
impulse  led  me  there — God  knows  what  I  hoped 
— more  than  the  sight  of  your  shadow  on  the 
blind.  I  felt  like  one  walking  in  sleep  and  this 
morning  I  have  wondered  if  it  wasn't  a  dream. 
But  no,  it  was  only  too  madly  real — too  really 

100 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


mad,  I  dare  say.  I  sometimes  think : ' ( How  mad 
I  am ! ' '  but  then,  how  I  love  you !  It  was  very 
dark  and  cold,  but  there  was  a  light  in  the  little 
study  I  know  so  well,  and  that  was  all — except 
the  long  way  home  in  the  snow.  Some  day  will 
you  understand?  Some  day  will  you  know? 
Some  day  will  you  care? 

I  hope  to  leave  the  thrall  of  your  influence  be 
hind  here  in  the  old  year.  I  hope  to  face  life 
better  in  the  new.  I  am  shackled  and  unfree 
with  the  heavy  chain  of  a  great  love.  I  am  drag 
ging  the  chain  in  the  dust  in  great  weariness. 
I  will  be  free— free!  Or  if  I  must  wear  it, 
Heart's  Love,  I  will  wear  it  as  an  ornament. 
But  that  requires  strength — and  I  am  ill,  Dear 
— ill,  and  very  tired.  Oh,  to  pass  out — with  the 
old  year! 

December  28th. 

Chevalier,  I  want  to  retrieve.  Don't  you? 
To  win  back  the  old  energy  of  effort,  the  old 
sure  hope  of  success.  I  am  paralyzed  with  the 

101 


shock  of  losing  you.  What  has  become  of  my 
energies,  my  faculties,  my  ideals?  Oh,  to  win 
them  back!  Dear,  a  word  from  you  would  so 
help — be  brave  enough  to  say  it !  No,  we  must 
win  each  for  himself.  I  would  rather  win  for 
you — so  much  rather.  But  the  deep,  real,  abid 
ing  thing,  the  only  thing  that  counts — Char 
acter — is  won,  not  for  our  own  sakes,  because 
we  wish  to  possess  the  greatest  thing  in  the 
world — not  even  for  our  loved  ones,  to  justify 
their  faith  in  us — but  for  its  sake,  for  the  sake 
of  Itself,  which  is  the  everlasting  truth,  behind 
all  things,  and  in  all  things.  How  dimly,  how 
very  dimly,  I  begin  to  perceive.  But,  oh,  my 
God !  I  must  leave  you — I  must  leave  you.  The 
force  which  is  in  us,  a  part  of  us,  which  urges 
us  sore,  so  sore  against  our  wills — up — will  have 
no  denial.  How  I  talk  to  you  in  thought,  just 
as  if  you  could  hear.  And  now  I  must  leave 
you  even  in  thought.  Out  of  my  life  you  have 
gone,  out  of  my  heart  you  must  go.  I  must  let 

102 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


go.  My  whole  nature,  my  very  soul  is  dragging. 
Little  I'd  care  if  it  did  you  any  good,  but  it 
doesn't.  It  is  ineffective,  powerless  love.  No 
love  should  be  that.  It  shames  the  thought  of 
baseness.  So  to  my  own  soul,  I  promise  I  will 
not  to  indulge  the  thought  of  you — save  as  a  re 
ward  for  having  done  some  good  in  your  name, 
through  some  thought  you  inspired  in  me.  You 
were  so  full  of  little  kindnesses  to  little  people, 
it  will  not  be  difficult  to  remember  and  imitate. 
And  on  those  days  which  have  been  worth  while, 
I  will  look  into  your  eyes  at  night  and  say  to 
them :  ' '  This  I  did  for  you  as  Christians  do  for 
Christ — do  I  deserve  now  to  suffer  just  a  little 
less  f "  In  this  way  the  suffering  will  count  for 
something.  The  love  will  benefit  some  one  and 
not  be  unproductive — which  is  so  great  a  curse. 
But  on  the  idle,  ignoble  days  I  will  not  permit 
myself  to  look  upon  your  picture,  or  think  of 
you  at  all.  In  this  way  you  will  not  clog  my 
energies,  but  inspire  them.  There  will  be  some 
thing  to  be  won  anew,  each  day. 

103 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"It  has  been  a  bitter  year,"  you  said,  "a  bit 
ter  year."  So  it  has,  but  it  has  been  beautiful, 
too.  "Good-bye"  in  life  is  hard  to  say,  but 
"good-bye"  in  thought — God!  shall  I  be  able  to 
do  it? 

Here  in  the  old  year  I  leave  my  passion,  fresh 
and  warm  as  it  was  yesterday — twelve  months 
ago.  There  in  the  new  year  I  meet  my  pur 
pose,  and  perhaps  it  leads  to  more  of  power  and 
more  of  peace.  But  passion,  and  pain,  and  pur 
pose,  and  power — if  it  comes — they  all  were 
given  by  you — my  Beloved — my  Well  Beloved. 

1905. 

The  new  year  is  still  only  two  hours  young, 
so  this  last  page  belongs  to  the  old.  It  is  a 
happy  new  year  since  getting  your  dear  mes 
sage.  I  had  not  expected  it,  but  knew,  somehow, 
before  I  tore  open  the  envelope,  that  the  tele 
gram  was  from  you.  "All  I  wish" — you  can 
not  know  how  much  that  means.  No  mere  year 

104 


THE  WOMAN  HEBSELF 


could  give  it,  only  you  could  give  it — and  even 
you  could  not  give  all  now — not  all  I  wish.    We 
are  so  various.    No  one  person  seems  able  to 
content  us  moderns.    In  fact  nothing  seems  to 
satisfy  us.    How  it  will  work  out  I  don't  know. 
What  a  year  it  has  been !    It  seems  so  profit 
less.    No  year  ever  left  me  so  poor  before  in 
every  way — in  character — in  hope — in  purpose 
— yes,  and  in  bank  account,  too.    What  a  lot  I 
have  to  retrieve — what  debts  to  pay — what  a 
handicap  to  lessen  before  I  show  my  score  at  the 
end  of  next  year's  game.    I  will  play  fair.    And 
yet  no  year  ever  left  me  so  rich  either,  in  friends, 
in  experience.     These  are  worth  all  the  rest. 
No  year  ever  held  such  swift  sweet  joy,  such 
long  hard  pain.    Both  are  over  in  a  measure, 
since  either  would  kill  if  they  continued. 
But  the  cause  remains. 
Women  are  mothers  first.    Other  loves  come 
later.    The  first  instinct  is  toward  the  first  doll. 
That  is  why  they  love  more  steadfastly  than 

105 


men — yet  do  they?  It  seems  to  me  the  older  I 
grow  the  less  I  prove.  The  proverbs  contradict 
each  other,  and  the  wisest  men  disagree.  It  is 
dimcult  to  find  any  fact  to  pin  faith  to.  Ideas, 
ideals,  standards  change.  Shall  we  ever  know 
the  meaning  of  life?  Once  I  thought  it  was 
Love,  now  I  know  that  is  only  the  accompani 
ment  of  the  song.  Again,  I  thought  it  was 
motherhood — reproduction.  Now  I  feel  still 
that  it  is  creation — the  creation  of  something 
better  than  ourselves — surpassing  ourselves  in 
work  of  any  sort.  These  things  that  torture  the 
soul  do  yet  stretch  its  capacity — do  urge  it  to 
higher  achievement. 

What  will  be  this  new  year 's  record  ?  Oh,  bet 
ter  than  the  old,  I  trust.  Let  us  hold  each  other 
high — high — and  make  ready  for  some  moment 
when  we  shall  meet  on  another  plane. 

Dear ! 

"If  it  be  not  to  come,  it  will  be  now.  If  it 
be  not  now  yet  it  will  come — the  readiness  is 
all." 

106 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


' '  The  readiness. ' '  Ah,  I  try  so  hard  to  mean 
these  things.  I  say  them,  I  pray  them,  I  try  to 
mean  them.  But  when  I  turn  on  the  searchlight 
of  my  heart's  honesty,  I  know,  whatever  else  I 
say — whatever  else  I  pray — the  real  thing — the 
thing  that  is  between  us — is  the  passion — pas 
sionate  loyalty — passionate  love — for  you,  my 
Chevalier. 

Sic  transit  1904. 

"We  shall  abscond  with  yesterday, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away." 


107 


CHAPTER  n 

January  19th. 

IT  is  not  the  high  water-mark  of  our  achieve 
ments  that  influences  people,  but  the  ordinary 
level  of  our  daily  lives — not  the  sudden  stride, 
but  the  sustained  pace  that  counts. 

One  year  ago  I  lost  myself  in  your  arms — 
in  the  wonder  of  love  in  your  face  above  me,  and 
the  fold  of  your  arms  beneath.  Oh,  I  could  shut 
my  eyes  and  be  back  in  last  year,  dizzy  with  the 
old  delight  and  delusion — ''lost  myself"  com 
pletely.  It  was  never  the  same  again — I,  nor 
life.  Now  I  am  just  beginning  to  find  myself — 
to  know  what  I  want  to  do,  and  set  about  doing 
it. 

"O  You  by  whom  my  life  is  riven 
And  reft  away  from  my  control, 

Count  all  the  passionate  past  forgiven, 
And  love  me  once,  once,  from  your  soul." 

108 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


If  I  could  teach  you !  If  I  could  be  worthy  to 
teach  you. 

Now  that  I  know  you  are  well,  life  has  swung 
back  to  normal  again.  Ah,  how  much  of  mine 
you  hold  in  your  careless  hand!  Good-night. 
I  would  the  old  dream  would  close  my  eyes  and 
the  new  hope  open  them.  Last  year — it  is  a  life 
ago! 

January  31st. 

Well,  I  have  seen  your  dear  face — after  these 
six  weary  months — been  in  your  presence — 
caught  the  smile  from  your  eyes — and  whatever 
hope  I  had  that  your  influence  was  passing  out 
of  my  heart  was  dispelled  by  its  clamourings  as 
my  eyes  met  yours.  I  am  going  to  give  up  the 
hope  entirely.  You  are  my  fate — the  biggest 
influence  in  my  life.  I  wonder  if  you  know  it? 
I  must  accept  it  and  do  my  best  to  make  you, 
proud  one  day  of  these  written  words,  to  be  a\ 
fair,  sweet,  big  and  buoyant  temperament,  to  at 
tain  the  worth-while  things  in  art  and  life  and  to 
say  to  you  some  time : 

109 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"This  is  your  doing — your  influence — my 
poor  little  endeavour  to  'sing  what  you  would 
have  said/  " 

Chevalier,  Chevalier,  I  would  count  the  years 
and  work  as  child's  play  if  at  last  I  might  put 
the  sum  of  them  into  your  hands  and  know  you 
smiled  upon  it.  What  we  need  is  not  less  feel 
ing,  but  more — more  vital — more  strong.  There 
is  nothing  in  the  world  that  so  urges  to  quick 
accomplishment  as  high  feeling.  If  I  fail,  I 
shall  be  proved  lacking  in  it.  Oh,  let  me  not 
be  that ! 

February  1st. 

Since  the  day  when  I  took  these  little  rooms 
— only  four  of  them — and  came  here  to  live  by 
myself,  I  have  acquired  a  kind  of  sad  peace  that 
is  akin  to  happiness.  I  have  allowed  Richard 
to  divorce  me  for  desertion,  have  refused  his 
support  or  help  and  have  lived  on  my  own  tiny 
capital.  In  that  way  I  have  saved  some  rem 
nant  of  self-respect.  Also,  I  have  been  working 

110 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


very  hard  at  my  music,  for  since  it  is  necessary 
before  long  that  I  should  earn  my  living,  I  have 
thought  perhaps  I  could  do  it  by  singing,  first 
in  concert,  ultimately  perhaps  in  opera,  if  the 
chance  comes ;  and  I  am  feeling  very  thankful 
for  the  good  training  of  my  youth,  under  one 
good  teacher,  and  for  the  real  love  of  music 
that  developed  my  gift  through  all  those  years 
of  married  life.  This  work,  and  my  friends, 
few — but  close  and  dear — is  all  that  is  left  now, 
but  the  work  gives  me  something  to  strive  for 
and  the  friends  make  the  striving  worth  while. 

Meanwhile,  with  the  great  body  of  people  I 
knew,  I  have  simply  dropped  out.  Living  so  far 
uptown  I  seldom  meet  them  (Richard  is  away 
in  Chicago  and  the  West  a  good  deal  of  the  time 
and  I  believe  we  are  supposed  to  have  met  re 
verses).  Enid  and  Ted  come  in  sometimes,  and 
Polly — and  one  or  two  others  of  her  literary  set, 
so  I  am  not  too  lonely. 

I  have  sung  at  two  big  concerts  in  Montreal 
111 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


and  Toronto,  for  which  I  got  $50  a  night.  If  I 
can  do  that  often,  I  can  easily  support  myself. 
I  think  I  will  go  abroad  this  summer  and  study 
with  my  old  teacher,  who  is  in  London  now; 
then  I  can  work  on  a  bigger  scale. 

February  7th. 

Straining  as  I  am,  toward  the  highest,  both 
in  myself  and  my  thought  of  you,  groping  as 
I  am  for  the  balance  of  things — it  troubles  me 
very  much  that  they  should  so  contemptuously 
throw  down  my  ideal  of  you.  I  can  find  nobody 
who  believes  in  it  but  me!  And  yet  against 
them  all,  I  believe  in  it.  Against  the  tried  and 
found  true,  I  believe  m  the  tried  and  found 
untrue.  Against  reason  and  fact,  I  believe  in 
my  soul's  sense  which  glimpsed — only  glimpsed 
— you  far,  far  otherwise  than  as  others  see 
you.  Hauntingly,  your  personality  crowds  on 
my  brain  as  if  I  had  lived  it  all,  been  you  in 
short — had  feebly  fought — and  feebly  fallen — 

112 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


before  the  forces  that  foredoomed  my  littleness 
— as  they  have  yours.  Vaguely,  yet  vividly,  I 
feel  that  you  have  loathed  it — and  I  insist  that 
you  shall  leave  it!  That  you  shall  not  lose  an 
other  life  in  failure  of  yourself !  I  must  believe 
that  only  what  we  love  endures.  How  to  help 
you,  my  Beloved? — since  I  am  myself  so  need 
ing  of  help.  It  would  be  the  presumption  of  the 
blind  leading  the  blind,  for  me  to  try.  0  God, 
here  is  where  finitely  I  fail — do  Thou  infinitely 
succeed!  Send  to  him — speak  to  him — all 

things  good 

How  bitter  it  is !  We  cannot  really  help  each 
other  much.  Each  one's  strength  is  in  himself 
— yet  the  infinite  yearning  we  have,  one  over 
the  other !  I  feel  a  weary  old  soul,  ages  old — 
with  ages  yet  to  live  and  suffer  ere  it  shall  un 
derstand.  And  you,  who  are  really  so  much 
older,  seem  only  like  a  child  whom  I  would  drag 
in  off  the  streets,  cleanse  and  comfort,  and  croon 
to,  till  you  should  sleep — and  wake — to  think  the 

113 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


old  life  only  a  dream.  Heaven,  I  think,  will  be 
like  that.  We  shall  stretch  refreshed  limbs,  or 
wings,  or  whatever  powers  we  move  by  there, 
rub  delighted  eyes,  and  say:  "Why,  it  wasn't 
real,  after  all.  Here  are  love  and  life  and  the 
sun — and  that  horrid  struggle  was  'only  a 
dream' — thank  God!" 

February  15th. 

The  way  I  talk  to  you  in  these  pages !  I  can 
not  realize  I  have  not  actually  spoken  with  you 
for  six  months — only  seen  you  once  across  a 
crowded  room!  Yet  these  intimate  conversa 
tions  I  hold  with  you  in  my  thoughts.  If  they 
could  only  reach  you,  like  Lilliputian  threads, 
and  bind  the  giant  of  your  spirit  fast  in  a  net 
of  love  and  wisdom  I  would  weave  for  you ! 

Ah,  why  do  I  still  chase  this  phantom  of  hap 
piness  !  Why  do  I  not  awake  and  say :  *  *  Junia, 
you  have  left  your  Magic  Woods — your  En 
chanted  Forest  behind.  You  have  come  out  into 
the  sunlight  of  every-day  effort — the  merciless 

114 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


illumination  of  reality,  where  deeds  count,  and 
dreams  diminish.  Live  for  the  now — not  for 
the  next  time"?  I  can  see  no  chance  of  the  re 
turn  of  the  old  happiness — yet — yet — these  are 
Spring  days,  and  the  hope  persists,  in  spite  of 
reason,  that  we  shall  meet  again,  that  our  lives 
shall  mingle  more  than  they  have  ever  done — 
that  we  shall  mean  more  to  each  other  some 
time.  Oh,  Hope,  stay  with  me  and  whip  my 
energies  to  fever  heat,  that  I  may  waste  no  time, 
but  be  worthy  of  the  moment  when  it  comes ! 

March  1st. 

To  meet  you  like  that! — just  by  a  beautiful 
chance!  A  sudden  sight  of  you — a  quick  out- 
reaching  of  hands,  mine  in  both  of  yours — and 
drawn  through  your  arm  at  once — before  we 
had  scarcely  spoken — and  how  gold  the  day 
turned — a  new  earth!  How  wonderfully  we 
met,  as  though  we  had  parted  yesterday — yet  it 
is  nearly  a  year  since  we  talked  intimately  to- 

115 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


gether,  except  that  one  day,  we  both  want  to 
forget,  last  September.  How  much  change  has 
there  been  in  your  heart?  As  much — or  as  lit 
tle — as  in  mine?  Ah,  I  am  so  much  more  at 
peace  since  seeing  you.  And  I  shall  see  you  once 
again,  and  then  no  more.  I  must  not.  Ah,  the 
partings  of  this  world ! — but  then  the  meetings ! 
— and  the  beautiful  happenings  of  Spring ! 

March  13th. 

And  now,  no  more,  Dear,  for  a  long,  long  time 
— perhaps  forever.  Yet  this  parting,  empty  as 
it  leaves  my  heart,  is  heaven  compared  to  our 
last.  I  have  told  you  what  I  have  always  so 
longed  to  tell  you,  yet  have  never  confessed  even 
to  these  pages — how  you  proved  my  woman 
hood  to  me — the  possibilities  of  it ! — told  it  sit 
ting  at  your  feet,  with  my  head  against  your 
knee,  and  your  dear  hands  blessing  my 
head.  .  .  . 

Ah,  what  if  the  child  that  we  did  not  have, 
116 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


which  was  never  born  to  us,  were  yet  a  Eeality 
— a  Soul  somewhere  in  space — with  power  over 
two  souls  to  draw  them  softly  and  surely  to 
gether  again?  Oh,  Child,  is  this  why  you  were 
denied  to  us  yet  a  while — that  you  might  less 
finitely  accomplish  the  culture  of  our  souls,  and 
prepare  them  for  your  coming?  "Will  you  come, 
will  you  come,  finally?  But  why  should  you 
want  to? — why  choose  again  this  flesh  embodi 
ment — this  earth  expression?  To  make  me 
happier?  Is  that  the  reason?  Are  you,  then, 
happiness? 

0  little  Soul,  my  Child,  the  overflow  of  my  too 
small  cup  of  love — if  you  would  but  come! 
Come  as  the  quintessence  of  our  intimate  selves 
when  the  soft  and  silent  things  lie  naked  and 
unashamed  together,  flesh  with  flesh,  spirit  with 
spirit,  inextricably  mingled.  Come  with  the 
grace  of  old  illusions,  come  with  the  glamour  of 
new  ideals.  Come  like  the  moonlight  with  its 
whisper  of  infinitude,  tender  and  fathomless. 

117 


Come  like  the  sunlight,  gloriously,  with  its 
power  on  this  day  of  things  to  be  done,  and 
finished  first.  Come,  0  Heart  of  my  Heart,  0 
Breath  of  his  Life,  to  us — fruition  after  fail 
ure — redeeming  pledge  of  all  we  Meant  to  Be! 
In  you,  only  the  best  of  ourselves  should  rise 
again,  for,  should  we  ever  draw  near  each  to 
each  once  more,  it  would  be  in  reverence  for  the 
love-soul  found  in  the  other.  You  would  be,  for 
us,  love  made  visible — 

"And  what  were  worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth?" 

Shall  I  ever  know  the  colour  of  your  eyes? 

I  could  not  say  all  this,  as  I  sat  there  at  your 
feet.  I  could  only  let  you  know  the  little  that 
a  man  may  know  of  the  greatest  thing  in  the 
world  to  a  woman — the  dream  and  the  hope 
that  so  nearly  came  to  Be!  And  when  it  was 
told,  it  was  you  who  were  at  my  feet,  and  I 
held  your  head  against  my  breast.  Man,  my 

118 


child,  no  one  understands  you  as  I  do — no  one 
in  the  world,  for  I  know  both  sides  of  you,  that 
which  will  pass,  the  "worser  half,"  and  that 
which  will  last. 

So  you  did  love  me  after  all?  Thanks — 
heart 's  thanks — for  that — but,  oh,  not  as  I  want 
to  be  loved!  Not  for  this  flesh,  which  you  feel 
and  see — oh,  that  too  of  course,  but  that  is  such 
a  little  part  of  me !  Dear,  find  the  rest  and  love 
it,  too,  one  day — even  if  the  old  sweet  passion 
for  which  we  both  hunger  is  crucified.  The 
thing  that  will  rise  again — oh,  love  that  in  me — 
as  I  do  in  you,  my  Heart  of  all  the  World  I 

March  31st. 

It  is  strange  how  this  love,  that  was  all  my 
sorrow,  is  turning  to  all  my  joy.  And  this  with 
out  word  or  sign  from  him  who  inspires  and 
sustains  it.  I  thought  it  an  End,  I  see  it  now 
a  gateway — a  Beginning — and  beyond — the  in 
effable  ! 

119 


THE  WOMAN  HEKSELF 


What  does  it  matter,  my  little  hurt?  It  un 
locked  the  gateway,  and  I  left  it  there,  but  I 
go  on  over  the  far  reaches  that  stretch  to  the 
Edge  of  the  World. 

It  is  a  fair  country  full  of  mystery  and  mean 
ing,  full  of  hints  and  whispers,  full  of  solitude 
and  struggle — but  with  such  lights  on  the  hori 
zon! 

And  the  garden  I've  left  behind — the  garden 
of  youth  on  the  other  side  of  the  gateway — 
oh,  the  memory  is  sweet  as  the  flowers  that  grew 
there !  But  who  would  hesitate  between  a  gar 
den  and  a  kingdom?  Who,  but  a  fool?  Once 
I  would  have  done,  once  I  would  have  said: 
"No  kingdom  for  me,  my  garden  is  good 
enough."  But  once  I  was  a  fool.  At  least,  at 
last,  I  am  learning  not  to  be  one  now. 

And  only  to  think  of  the  Company,  the  great 
Company,  who  have  taken  me  into  their  ranks ! 
— I  don't  count — that's  why  I'm  there — but  yet 
I'm  of  them,  with  them.  With  them  and  of  them 

120 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


through  understanding  their  language,  all  that 
they  say,  and  much  more  that  they  mean. 
Those  who  write  great  thoughts  in  music,  those 
who  make  great  dreams  come  true  in  painting, 
those  who  feel  in  the  fire  of  verse — all  those  who 
reach  out  and  ask,  all  who  symbolize  in  art  and 
life — oh,  these  have  taken  me  in !  I,  with  only 
humble  gifts,  yet  can  understand  their  great 
ness,  since  I  came  through  that  gateway  of  sor 
row.  Surely,  this  is  a  kingdom  worth  losing  a 
few  flowers  for !  Oh  Eoses  and  Lilies  of  Life ! 
Shall  I  ever  find  any  more  in  the  great,  broad 
wilderness  I  call  my  kingdom?  I  did  not  want 
my  kingdom ;  I  was  ready  to  give  it  away.  Yet 
here  it  is — here  it  must  be  ruled — by  divine 
right.  By  divine  insistence  we  may  not  escape 
our  sovereignty  over  the  kingdom  of  ourselves. 
How  we  shirk  it — how  we  rebel — how  we  wear 
our  crowns  as  burdens,  not  as  ornaments !  Yet 
there  it  is — every  man's  and  every  woman's 
who  has  a  soul  to  be  lived  in.  We  cannot  escape 

121 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


— we  can  only  delay.  But  ultimately,  ultimately, 
each  must  come  into  his  own. 

And  in  the  Wilderness,  alone,  apart,  I  love 
you  better  than  in  the  garden  where  the  serpent 
was.  Did  Eve  not  love  her  lord  more  after 
the  fall,  I  wonder? 

April  3d. 

Dear  little  room  where  I  have  lived  so  much 
— where  I  have  laughed  and  been  glad  with 
friends  of  my  heart — where  I  have  been  sad, 
alone — with  the  grief  of  my  life — I  am  to  leave 
you  and  go  to  a  far  country.  Looking  about 
your  tiny  space  I  find  you  crowded  with  memo 
ries.  There  is  the  beautiful  park  in  spring  jubi 
lance  of  green,  now.  It  was  grey  and  desolate 
when  I  sat  on  the  floor  by  the  couch,  and  wept 
out  my  heart's  great  ache,  last  Christmas  after 
that  wandering  in  the  snow  at  two  in  the  morn 
ing!  What  a  vagabond  I  am,  for  a  fairjy  de 
cent  person !  There  I  made  a  new  friend — there 

122 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


around  the  hearth  I  cemented  the  ties  of  old 
ones.  There  again  I  read  an  eye-opening,  won 
derful  book  that  peopled  the  dusk  with  almost 
animate  suggestion.  Here  I  came  for  consola 
tion  to  my  Poets,  as  most  people  go  to  their 
Bibles.  Here — ah,  here — you  came,  my  Be 
loved,  and  we  had  that  wonderful  talk.  I  am  to 
leave  you,  little  room,  and  go  far  away.  I  am  in 
the  sort  of  mood  when  even  simple  things  take 
on  symbolism.  This  going  away  seems  like  the 
last  long  journey,  when  we  shall  leave  the  dear 
familiar  things,  lovely  sounds  of  leaves  and 
wash  of  rain,  blare  of  sunsets  and  the  creeping 
stillness  of  stars — and  go  to  a  farther  country. 
Earth,  how  I  love  you!  Sight  and  sound  and 
smell  of  you,  especially  when  you  wear  your 
spring  face,  your  spring  frock — oh,  shall  I  ever . 
know  him  on  a  night  like  this?  And  some  day 
we  must  leave  it  all  and — they  say — there  is  "no 
returning."  But  who  knows? 
If  we  could  only  carry  memory  over !  Let  us 
123 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


not  live  again  unknowing — let  us  not  love  again 
unremembering,  forgetting  this  Now,  this  sad, 
deep,  wonderful  Now. 

April  15th. 

Here  I  am  in  the  heart  of  London — ready  for 
all  the  study  I  can  crowd  into  a  day,  and  this 
little  book  is  almost  my  only  companion  and 
confidant. 

If  he  should  ever  read  this  book — how  ab 
surd,  since  it  is  always  locked  in  my  desk — but 
if  he  should  ever  happen  to  get  hold  of  these 
thoughts  of  mine,  in  or  out  of  this  book — I  won 
der  what  he  would  think?  Would  he  say  de 
risively  : 

"Call  this  a  journal!  I  call  it  a  flight  of  fan 
cies — a  lot  of  rubbishy  love-letters  which  never 
were  sent"? 

.     Or  would  he  shake  his  head,  as  he  used  to  do 
over  my  poor  little  poems,  and  say : 

"Very  feminine — very  feminine" — from  a 
height  of  masculine  superiority  so  colossal  that 

124 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  felt  dignified  if  he  stooped  as  low  as  his  shoe 
lace  to  pat  my  head?  Or  would  he — and  this  I 
like  but  to  think — say  with  that  gentle  lighting 
up  of  eyes  that  I  know  so  well,  and  love  so 
much,  ' '  Grave,  sweet  Junia — you  silly  old  thing 
— to  care  so  much"? 

And  I,  probably  with  my  head  against  his 
knee,  would  laugh  and  wink  away  tears  which 
he  would  never  see. 

Ah  well,  say  anything  you  like,  Chevalier, 
with  your  strong  man's  hand  clasped  over  mine, 
but  don't  laugh — oh,  don't  laugh! — for  this  was 
not  written  out  of  a  laughing  heart. 

Oh,  I  make  even  myself  laugh !  As  if  anyone 
would  imagine  that  it  was !  When  love  is  not 
the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world,  it  is  the  saddest 
— and  that  is  mine. 

Never  mind.  I  had  it.  I  had  my  day.  Some 
little  dogs  never  get  theirs.  I  had  mine,  and  it 
was  worth  all  the  other  days  of  all  my  life. 

That  to  your  credit,  Monsieur,  when  it  comes 
125 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


to  the  final  testifying — that  you  made  one 
woman  wholly  happy,  for  one  whole  day — and 
night. 

April  17th. 

Dear  old  Herr  Von  Seebach!  How  good  it 
was  to  see  his  broad,  ruddy  face  again,  and  hear 
his  "Ach,  Fraulein!  Do  you  drop  from 
Heaven?  How  many  years  is  it  since  we  met?" 

"So  you  have  not  forgotten  your  old  pupil1?" 
I  asked,  smiling. 

"Ach,  no,"  said  the  dear  old  man,  still  hold 
ing  my  hand.  "But  you  have  changed — ah, 
much!  You  were  such  a  little  girl  eight — nine 
years  ago — I  could  not  teach  you  all  I  knew 
then." 

"But  now  you  can?"  I  asked  a  little  wist 
fully.  ' '  I  have  been  working  very  hard.  I  have 
come  over  here  alone,  for  nothing  else  but  to 
put  myself  under  your  direction.  I  want  to  fit 
myself  for  big  work,  mein  Herr,  if  you  think 
lean." 

126 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


He  nodded.  ''There  was  much,  tempera 
ment,"  he  said.  "Much  depth.  We  shall  see  if 
power  has  developed." 

The  vitality  of  those  big,  genial  Germans! 
The  moment  his  fingers  touched  the  keys  of  the 
piano  I  felt  new-charged  with  strength  and  my 
voice  poured  out  as  I  had  never  heard  it  be 
fore,  in  great  round  notes  that  set  the  atoms  of 
wood  in  the  chair,  on  which  my  hand  rested,  to 
vibrating!  The  professor  led  me  from  one 
theme  to  another,  sometimes  hardly  accompany 
ing  at  all  and  listening  intently ;  sometimes  giv 
ing  me  such  a  tremendous  accompaniment  to 
sing  against  that  it  took  all  my  concentration 
and  power.  I  sang  with  my  mind  and  heart  and 
soul  and  body — and  the  studio  walls  rang  and 
echoed  with  it  and  even  seemed  to  vibrate  with' 
the  sound,  as  did  the  wooden  chair  on  which 
my  hand  rested.  And  at  the  end  my  dear  old 
friend  swung  round  impetuously  and  said: 

"Ach,  yes,  you  have  the  gift  to  feel,  and  tKe 
127 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


organ  to  express  it,  but  we  must  not  go  too  fast. 
You  must  build  up  physically.  You  are  too 
slight  for  sustained  work.  An  artist's  life  is 
one  of  high  pressure — nervously,  mentally, 
physically.  Will  you  put  yourself  entirely  in 
my  hands?" 

I  knew  I  could  do  that  without  fear,  for  if 
Herr  Von  Seebach  had  not  been  a  fine  musician, 
he  would  have  been  a  fine  physician,  I  be 
lieve.  Though  he  is  over  sixty  he  has  the  car 
riage  and  vigour  of  an  athlete.  I  explained  to 
him  something  of  my  circumstances — how  I  had 
enough  to  live  on  for  a  while,  but  it  would  be 
necessary  for  me  to  be  able  to  earn  before  long. 

"But  they  were  rich,  your  people,"  he  said 
in  astonishment. 

"My  father's  people,  yes,"  I  answered,  and 
then  it  was  necessary  to  explain  I  had  married 
since,  and  was  to  some  extent  cut  off  from  my 
family.  "I  have  now  no  near  ties,"  I  said 
quietly.  "Nothing  but  work.  So  I  want  you 

128 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


to  show  me  how  to  make  the  best  of  it,  my;  dear 
old  friend." 

The  relation  of  master  and  pupil  has  often 
seemed  to  me  rather  wonderful.  The  people 
who  can  teach  us  things — how  reverentially  we 
love  them! — and  on  the  teachers'  side  I  have 
often  fancied  there  must  grow  a  kind  of  large 
tenderness  for  the  learning  hearts  entrusted  to 
their  care.  Anyway,  my  master's  kind  eyes 
grew  kinder  as  he  answered : 

"I  will  do  my  best,  meine  liebe — and  it  will 
be  good.  You  have  lived  in  these  ten  years. 
.Well,  all  the  better.  We  shall  put  it  all  into  the 
music — and  later,  perhaps,  into  the  Artiste." 

And  from  this  encouragement  I  went  home  to 
my  modest  rooms  in  Kensington,  with  a  new 
hope  singing  in  my  heart.  If  what  one  suffers 
and  goes  through  in  life  may  count  for  some 
thing  in  art,  after  all  it  is  not  wasted.  It  is  the 
in-vainness  of  our  agony  that  crushes  our 
spirit.  But  if  it  means  unfoldment,  develop- 

129 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


ment  of  other  powers — why,  it  develops  in  us 
such  a  wider  love  for  the  world  that  it  almost 
seems  worth  while ! 

April  20th. 

To  homeless  people  in  a  strange  land  what  a 
blessing  the  postman  seems!  This  morning 
came  a  letter  from  Polly  telling  me  news  of  my 
Chevalier : 

11  It  seems  he  has  written  a  play,"  she  wrote, 
"which  is  to  be  produced  next  month  in  Lon 
don.    I  met  him  the  other  day  at  Mrs.  Chester's. 
I 

He  has  all  the  charm  you  described  to  me,  gay 

surface  spirits  and  an  underlying  melancholy 
that  is  very  attractive.  But — well,  dear,  I  don't 
feel  any  stability  in  him.  I  shouldn't  want  to< 
have  to  rely  on  him  in  any  of  life 's  emergencies. 
However,  Mrs.  Chester  seems  very  fond  of  him. 
She  says  his  play  is  a  masterpiece.  I  wonder  if 
it  could  be  the  one  you  did  at  her  house  last 
year?  She  asked  a  good  deal  about  you,  but  I 

130 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


said  I  didn't  hear  very  often,  as  you  were  travel 
ling.  He  asked,  too,  and  to  him  I  said  rather 
abruptly:  'Did  you  know  the  Trents  are  to  be 
divorced?'  And  he  was  genuinely  astonished 
and  shocked.  '  I  knew,  at  least  I  gathered  from 
Mrs.  Trent  that  they  were  separated,'  he  an 
swered,  'but  divorced — no,  I  did  not  know. 
When  did  they  decide  to  do  that?'  'Just  after 
Mrs.  Trent's  illness  last  fall,'  I  answered.  'But 
I  saw  her  last  month, '  he  said, '  about  six  weeks 
ago,  and  she  did  not  tell  me.'  'No,  she  wouldn't 
be  likely  to,'  I  replied.  'But  we  are  both  her 
friends,  you  and  I,  and  I  thought  you  ought  to 
know.  Of  course,  don't  speak  of  it  yet  to  any 
one.  I  only  told  you  because  you  might  meet 
her  in  London — and  wonder. ' 

"He  seemed  quite  disturbed,  Junia,  dear.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  you  heard  from  him.  I 
hope  I  did  right  to  tell  him.  Meanwhile,  no  one 
else  seems  to  know  or  guess  anything  of  your 
affairs." 

131 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  at  that.  So  it  was 
all  going  quietly,  and  we  should  have  the  di 
vorce  by  the  time  people  began  to  wonder  if  we 
would  get  one.  I  thought  gratefully  of  Richard 
for  the  thousandth  time,  for  the  way  he  was 
managing  our  affairs.  Why  can  we  not  love 
where  we  wish  to  love !  If  I  could  have  chosen, 
I  would  have  chosen  to  love  the  man  to  whom 
I  was  married,  for  his  splendid  traits  and 
qualities,  for  the  depth  of  devotion  he  had  for 
me.  But  women  cannot  choose.  Their  wild 
hearts  rule  them. 

I  turned  from  her  letter  to  the  morning  paper 
and  saw  the  announcement  of  his  play.  It  is  to 
be  done  in  a  fortnight.  I  wonder  if  he  will  be 
here  and  if  I  shall  see  him  f  And  if  my  divorce 
will  make  any  difference  to  him?  Of  course,  I 
didn't  tell  him  of  it,  that  last  time  we  talked  to 
gether  in  my  little  rooms.  He  might  have 
thought  I  expected  something  from  him — some 
reparation  for  all  I  have  lost  in  life — and  I 

132 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


would  die  rather  than  he  should  think  that — 
after  he  had  advised  me  to  "return  to  my  hus 
band."  Ah,  the  mere  memory  of  that  scene 
crushes  me  with  humiliation.  No  wonder  I  tried  , 
to  fly  from  life.  When  a  woman's  love  is 
spurned,  what  in  God's  name  is  there  left  for 
her? 

Yet  there  is  work  and  the  strange  deep  kin 
ship  with  those  who  have  suffered  and  who  have 
worked  out  their  suffering  in  some  form  of  art. 
The  master  minds  of  the  world,  in  poetry,  paint 
ing  and  music,  seem  to  acknowledge  my  rela 
tionship,  though  I  am  only  a  sort  of  humble 
country  cousin.  My  old  gift  of  song  is  coming 
back,  and  now  that  spring  lies  over  London, 
something  of  the  lilt  of  it  gets  into  my  voice 
and  makes  even  exercises  and  scales  seem  gay 
and  joyous  things.  I  had  not  realized,  either, 
how  much  of  a  repertoire  I  had,  but  as  I  re 
cover  it,  I  quite  surprise  dear  Professor  Von 
Seebach.  "You  must  have  studied  all  these 

133 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


years,  Fraulein,"  lie  says,  and  though  I  did  not 
think  of  it  as  study,  I  suppose  I  have  made  mine 
all  the  operas  I  have  most  cared  for.  The  pro 
fessor  never  can  think  of  me  as  anything  but 
"Fraulein."  In  vain  do  I  remind  him,  laugh 
ing,  that  I  am  a  matron,  staid  and  old.  He 
shakes  his  head  and  says:  "No,  I  feel  in  you  a 
singleness.  It  argues  well  for  the  artiste — per 
haps  not  so  well  for  the  married  life." 

"A  singleness !"  If  he  had  said  "loneliness" 
I  would  understand,  for  in  all  this  city  there  is 
no  one  that  I  know  but  the  Herr  Professor  and 
his  chubby,  cheerful  wife;  no  one  that  I  talk 
with,  but  the  landlady  who  comes  up  every 
morning  for  my  orders.  I  am  not  a  person  these 
days — I  am  only  a  Voice. 

May  3d. 

I  am  feeling  quite  excited.  No  sooner  did  the 
professor  hear  that  I  was  interested  in  "A 
Soul's  Progress"  than  he  said:  "Why  should 

134 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


we  not  go  to-night — you,  the  Frau — and  I?  A 
little  dissipation  will  be  good  for  yon — for  us 
all.  All  work  and  no  play  makes  us  dull."  So 
we  are  going,  and  have  quite  good  seats  in  the 
stalls.  Oh,  will  he  be  there?  Shall  I  see  him? 
Will  he  remember?  Why,  after  all  I  am  quite 
young — my  heart  beats  so  to-night! 

Later. 

Ah,  little  book,  what  should  I  do  without  you? 
You  are  the  vent  for  my  feeling,  my  thought — 
the  safety  valve.  But  for  you,  something  in  my 
overcharged  heart  would  burst,  the  pressure  is 
so  tremendous,  and  the  loneliness  of  my  circum 
stances  so  extreme.  How  little  most  people 
know  what  loneness  means !  Breaking  old  ties 
is  lonely.  Forming  new  ones  is  lonely.  But 
standing  without  either  is  loneness  itself. 

Yet — yet — You  were  there  to-night.  I  saw 
you.  I  heard  you.  I  felt  you.  I  drank  in  again 
the  joy  and  the  anguish  of  your  personality.  I 

135 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


knew  again  its  beauty,  its  grace,  its  charm. 
They  called  you  before  the  curtain  for  a  speech, 
and  just  at  the  end  of  your  few  nervous  remarks 
— you  looked  down  and  saw  me — saw  what  you 
[used,  to  call  my  "worshipping  eyes" — and  you 
faltered — bowed — and  withdrew.  So  I  do 
matter  to  you  still,  I  do !  I  do !  And  yet  you 
do  not  love  me.  Ah,  I  wonder  why  it  is? 

And  then  I  became  conscious  of  a  grave, 
kindly  "Mem  Liebchen,"  and  instinctively 
turned  away  from  meeting  the  professor's  eyes 
— then  suddenly  turned  back,  and  let  him  see ! 
And  he  understood,  for  his  eyes  filled  at  the 
smile  I  gave  him.  What  can  I  do  but  smile — all 
the  rest  of  my  life — smile  at  my  folly — smile  at 
my  sin — smile  at  myself?  It  is  a  thing  to  smile 
at,  is  it  not,  for  a  woman  to  be  such  a  fool  ?  To 
give  up  home,  husband,  reputation,  social  pres 
tige  and  the  soul  and  body  of  herself,  for — a 
dream — an  emptiness — a  scruple  I  Oh,  even  God 
must  laugh  at  fools ! 

136 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


If  he  had  cared — as  I  thought — if  he  had 
loved  me  as  I  had  loved  him — as  I  still  love  him, 
and  always  must !  Why  does  he  not  ?  In  all  sim 
plicity,  I  ask  it,  for  I  see  that  I  am  beautiful,  and 
still  young — still  young — that  I  have  tempera 
ment,  passion,  ideality.  I  can  sing,  I  can  act,  I 
can  live!  But  I  cannot  win  the  one  man  that 
I  need,  that  I  want — yet — yet — he  faltered,  and 
withdrew  when  he  met  my  eyes. 

I  wonder 

May  4th. 

The  notices  were  so  peculiar  this  morning, 
that  I  thought  I  would  send  him  a  line  to  off 
set  them,  so  I  wrote: 

' '  MY  DEAE  CHEVALIEE  :  Just  a  little  line  to  let 
you  know  I  saw  your  play's  premiere  last 
night.  Whatever  the  notices  say,  and  however 
the  public  receives  it,  I  think  you  have  a  strong, 
original,  poetic  work,  and  I  feel  more  than  ever 
proud  that  I  know  both  it  and  its  author.  I 

137 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


did  not  know  you  were  in  London  until  you  came 
forward  in  response  to  the  audience's  call.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  wonderful  first  night.  I  felt  the 
spell  of  the  play  held  all  around  me,  and  hope 
it  may  turn  out  a  great  success  for  you. 
"  Always  sincerely  yours, 

"  JUNTA  TRENT." 

Surely  that  is  not  much  to  say  or  do  for  a 
friend — even  if  he  doesn't  love  me!  So  I 
mailed  it  to  the  theatre. 

May  5th. 

And  in  response,  his  man  called  with  a  note 
for  me  which  said  simply : 

"May  I  come  and  see  you  at  five  to-day?  If 
that  is  not  convenient,  please  tell  me  when  I 
may  come.  Yours  as  ever, 

"VlCTOE  DE  TOREYNE." 

I  hesitated  while  the  man  waited.  After  all, 
it  is  over  and  done.  Why  should  I  bring  this 

138 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


troublous  thing  back  into  my  life  again?  Yet — 
yet — the  loneliness !  Well,  chance  would  de 
cide.  I  was  standing  at  the  window,  and  a  man 
with  a  ladder  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  street. 
I  thought,  * '  If  he  starts  to  climb  with  his  right 
foot,  I  will  tell  the  Comte  to  come." 

He  started  with  his  left — but  being  a  woman, 
I  said  to  the  waiting  servant :  *  *  Please  tell  the 
Comte  de  Toreyne  that  I  will  be  pleased  to  re 
ceive  him  this  afternoon." 

So  again  I  am  waiting  for  him  whom  I 
thought  I  should  never  wait  for  again.  My 
Friend,  my  Love,  are  you  coming  back  to  me 
across  seas — across  such  sorrowful  memories 
as  ours — across  such  a  difference? 

Later. 

We  had  tea  in  front  of  a  tiny  fire  in  my  little 
sitting-room,  and  talked  of  ordinary  things — 
things  detached  from  ourselves.  Then  he 
asked  if  he  might  not  take  me  out  to  dinner. 

139 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


Pie  called  for  me  again  at  eight,  and  we  went  to 
the  Carlton.  I  thank  Heaven  I  still  have 
some  pretty  things  left — a  soft  white  lace  dress, 
beautifully  modeled — and  the  rope  of  pearls, 
which  was  an  heirloom.  Every  head  in  the 
room  turned  as  we  came  in — not  on  my  account, 
I  knew,  but  with  curiosity  and  interest  in  the 
rising  young  author,  whose  personality  always, 
everywhere,  commands  attention. 

We  were  very  gay  and  light-hearted  in  our 
talk  at  dinner,  and  I  found  it  good  to  be  part 
of  the  pleasure-world  again — not  to  think  of  a 
serious  purpose,  a  career — not  to  think  of  a  past 
or  a  future,  just  to  live  in  the  moment.  We 
bandied  words  and  wit,  and  gossiped  of  books 
and  plays  and  people  like  ordinary  friends,  and 
laughed  like  children  over  inconsequential 
things. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  the  colour  in  your  cheeks 
again, ' '  he  said  after  a  while.  * '  You  have  been 
doing  something  you  ought  not  to  lately — I 

140 


don't  know  whether  it  is  overwork  or  over-dis 
sipation;  but,  anyway,  you  oughtn't  to  do  it." 

"You  remind  me  of  the  mother  who  told  the 
nurse  to  'find  out  what  the  children  are  doing,( 
and  tell  them  to  stop, '  "  I  laughed. 

"Well,  I'll  be  the  nurse  in  this  case,"  he  an 
swered.  '  *  Child,  what  are  you  doing ! ' ' 

"Oh,  don't  let  us  talk  of  serious  things  like 
that,"  I  said  flippantly.  "Let  us  talk  of  light 
things  like — life,  and  love,  and  time,  and  art — 
just  little  things  like  those. ' ' 

"They  are  all  quite  'little  things'  compared 
to  why  your  cheeks  are  pale,  and  why  you  are 
here  alone,"  he  answered  gravely,  with  one  of 
the  unexpected  changes  that  make  people  love 
him. 

But  I  refused  to  discuss  myself,  and  turned 
the  talk  back  to  lighter  things  until  we  reached 
home  again.  There,  as  he  was  helping  me  off 
with  my  cloak,  he  suddenly  wrapped  both  arms 
round  me,  crushing  me  to  him,  burying  his  face 

141 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


against  rny  neck  and  hair,  and  saying  over  and 
over  "  Junia — Junia — Junia!" 

And  I  knew  again  the  still  delirium  of  his 
kiss. 

Even  now,  writing  long  after  he  has  gone,  the 
sweet  faintness  almost  overcomes  me,  as  I  re 
member. 

But  then,  I  walked  a  little  away  from  him, 
over  toward  the  window,  and  laid  my  face 
against  the  cold  pane,  until  the  newly  awakened 
tumult  in  my  heart  had  subsided  a  little,  and  he 
stood  on  the  hearth-rug  with  a  little  smile — and 
waited. 

"Well!"  he  said  at  last. 

There  were  only  a  few  live  coals  left  in  the 
grate,  and  only  candle-light  in  the  room.  I  came 
over  to  the  fireplace  and  sat  down  on  a  low  seat 
there,  smiling  up  at  him — rather  faintly,  I'm 
afraid. 

"It  mustn't  happen  again,"  I  said  gently. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded.  "I  understand 
there  is  no  reason — now." 

142 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


'  *  More  reason  now  than  ever,  because  I  know 
now  that  you  do  not  care  for  me  as  I  cared  for 
you.  I  didn't  realize  that  first  time,  when  I 
gave  myself  to  your  need.  I  thought  it  was  the 
same  with  us  both — the  same  big  feeling,  which 
was  its  own  excuse." 

"  So  it  was, ' '  he  said. 

"No." 

"Junia,  I  think  you  always  undervalued  my 
feeling  for  you — always  misjudged  its  depth,  its 
sincerity.  My  affection  for  you  was  very 
real." 

" Affection — what  is  that?"  I  answered. 
''Does  it  "balance  the  scales  against  love?" 

"We  are  using  different  words  for  the  same 
thing, ' '  he  said.  * '  I  will  change  mine.  My  love, 
then,  for  you  was — is — very  real.  I  think  you 
always  undervalued  it. ' ' 

He  spoke  like  a  hurt  child,  and  as  always,  the 
maternal  in  me  responded. 

"Forgive  me,  if  I  did,"  and  I  stretched  out 
143 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


a  hand,  which  he  took  and  kissed  in  the  palm — 
before  I  withdrew  it.  "But  you  must  remem 
ber  this  'love'  of  yours  failed  me  at  the  first 
test." 

"Love  often  fails  at  the  first  test,"  he  broke 
in  eagerly — "before  it  has  grown  strong." 

"And  at  the  second  and  supreme  test  it  failed, 
too."  I  am  afraid  I  was  relentless  in  saying 
that,  but  the  memory  of  that  last  day  and  night, 
when  I  went  through  what  I  thought  was  my  last 
agony,  came  over  me.  The  long  shudder  which 
that  thought  always  brings  shook  me. 

"Ah,  Junia,  it  was  a  'supreme  test/  "  he 
cried.  "You  couldn't  know  how  impossible  for 
me  to  answer.  You  didn't  know  my  circum 
stances.  If  any  trouble  had  arisen  then — any 
scandal  about  me — the  late  Comtesse,  in  getting 
her  divorce,  could  have  obtained  also  the  cus 
tody  of  the  child;  but  now  I  have  the  right  to 
see  her  whenever  I  wish.  She  is  very  dear  to 
me — my  baby." 

144 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"I  know,"  I  answered. 

"And  her  mother  was  very  bitter  about  me. 
She  would  have  liked  to  have  the  entire  custody 
of  the  child  awarded  her." 

"Why  was  she  so  bitter?"  I  asked. 

He  threw  out  his  hands  with  a  hopeless  ges 
ture. 

"Why  is  a  woman  ever  bitter  with  a  man?" 
he  asked.  "I  suppose,  because  he  ceases  to  love 
her.  I  couldn  't  live  with  my  wife  after  that. ' ' 

"Not  even  the  child  could  bring  you  to 
gether?" 

"No;  she  finds  her  enjoyment  in  the  gay  life 
— in  society,  and  travel.  There  is  no  home 
where  she  is.  That  does  not  suit  me,  so  I  de 
serted  her,  and  after  a  while  she  divorced  me. ' ' 

"Poor  woman.    I  am  sorry  for  her,"  I  said. 

"Good  heavens,  why?  She  has  the  money, 
the  position,  the  good  name — and  I  get  all  the 
blame." 

145 


"But  she  is  the  unhappy  one,"  I  answered. 
"And  she  was  an  American,  was  she  not?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  must  have  made  her  suffer.  Ah, 
Victor,  I  do  not  think  you  treat  women  very 
well." 

"With  an  astonishing  audacity  he  threw  him 
self  down  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  laid  his  head 
against  my  knee. 

1 '  There  is  only  one  that  I  want  to  treat  well — 
and  she  won't  let  me,"  and  he  looked  up  with 
a  smile  that  was  a  challenge. 

There  is  a  wonderful  combination  of  the  child 
— almost  of  the  woman — in  this  man.  Just 
when  I  want  to  be  angry  with  him,  he  throws 
himself  on  my  mercy  in  such  a  way  that  I  can 
only  pity  and  forgive  him.  Just  when  I  become 
tragic  with  the  force  of  my  own  feeling,  he 
dissipates  it  with  an  audacious  saying  that 
makes  me  smile.  And  even  as  I  smile,  and 
think  him  a  child,  and  make  myself  into  a  fel- 

146 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


low  playmate,  his  mood  changes  again,  and  he 
reveals  to  me  an  emotional  depth  that  even  I  can 
hardly  compass,  and  he  becomes  my  master  with 
the  sure  mastery  of  the  greater  brain  and  the 
larger  experience.  It  is  the  richest  tempera 
ment  I  have  ever  known — close  to  genius,  and 
with  the  strange  delicacies  and  weaknesses  of 
genius — a  man,  a  woman,  and  a  child,  all  in  one. 

I  looked  at  him  as  his  head  rested  against 
my  knee,  in  the  brooding  dream  that  only  women 
who  can  love  with  the  passion  of  their  whole 
selves,  and  with  the  additional  fervour  of 
mother-feeling,  can  understand.  The  splendid 
head  so  strongly  set  on  the  shoulders,  betoken 
ing  the  brilliant,  sensitive  brain ;  the  level  eyes 
set  wide  apart ;  the  plastic,  compelling  mouth — 
what  would  be  the  end  of  this  man? — who  should 
attain  so  much  in  the  world  of  art,  by  reason  of 
his  fine  endowment. 

He  reached  for  my  hand,  and  placed  it  on  his 
head  himself,  mutely  asking  for  the  caress,  and 

147 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  smiled,  and  gave  it,  thinking  how  grey  the 
thick  black  hair  was  growing  at  the  temples,  and 
how  it  made  the  face  beneath  seem  more  boyish 
still. 

"  Junia,"  he  said,  after  a  silence  that  was  like 
music,  "I  think  you  have  much  to  forgive.  I 
have  failed  you — twice.  I  am  not  a  man  to 
make  any  woman  happy.  She  would  always 
have  to  forgive  too  much.  I  should  not  marry 
— any  one.  Yet  I  love  you.  You  are  next  my 
mother — my  little  English  mother,  who  gave  me 
all  the  best  there  is  in  me.  Does  that  content 


"It  makes  me  very  happy,"  I  answered  gen 
tly. 

"But  it  isn't  enough?" 

"No,  love  alone  isn't  enough." 

"Ah,"  he  cried,  springing  up,  "how  you 
trifle  with  passion,  you  women!  You  lead  a 
man  on  to  expect  all — and  then  you  give  him 
back — nothing.  You  like  to  play  with  love,  but 

148 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


you  will  not  pay  for  it!  It  is  the  man  who 
pays ! ' ' 

' '  That  is  an  original  idea ! "  I  said,  smiling  at 
his  vehemence. 

He  stood  facing  me  with  a  frown,  and  I  looked 
back  at  him,  smiling  coolly.  Suddenly  he 
caught  up  his  coat  and  hat,  and  turned  and  took 
me  in  his  arms  before  I  knew  it. 

"Dearest,"  he  said  rapidly,  "I  love  you  and 
want  you,  but  until  you  want  me  as  before,  it 
isn't  any  use  my  seeing  you  again.  Good 
bye." 

And  he  was  gone  before  I  had  caught  my 
breath. 

So  I  have  been  wandering  around  the  room 
thinking  it  all  over.  What  is  it  he  wants  of  me  ? 
Bits  of  his  words  came  back — ' i  I  do  not  want  to 
marry  anybody" — "I  could  never  make  a 
woman  happy  for  long" — "yet  I  love  you." 

Ah,  Junia,  Junia !  You  moth- woman,  haven 't 
you  felt  the  flame  before,  that  you  go  on  trying 

149 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


to  fly  into  the  fire  I  Yet  how  you  love  him — and 
how  you  need  him !  The  companionship  of  his 
brain,  the  impetus  of  his  spirit,  the  joy,  the  vig 
our,  the  exhilaration  his  whole  being  gives  you ! 

Ah  me ! 

I  am  very  lonely — yet,  the  dishonesty  of  eat 
ing  one  man's  bread  and  taking  another  man's 
love,  for  this  tiny  capital  which  I  am  exhausting 
so  rapidly,  came  to  me  from  Eichard,  originally. 
By  the  time  our  divorce  is  got,  it  will  be  gone 
and  I  shall  stand  quite  alone.  And  what  is 
there  in  front  of  me,  I  wonder!  A  very  bar 
ren  stretch  of  years — without  either  of  them. 
Yet  I  cannot  give  myself  up  again.  I  cannot 
give  up  the  home  and  the  husband,  and  the  faith 
Richard  had  in  me,  and  still  has,  for  anything 
less.  That  would  be  to  undersell  the  great  thing 
of  life — marriage.  I  am  not  offered  that.  Ah, 
no,  I  cannot  accept  anything  else.  I  will  write 
and  tell  him  so,  and  keep  a  copy  of  the  letter 
here. 

150 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


"My  owx  CHEVALIEK:  This  is  probably  one 
of  the  letters  that  are  never  sent — 5  et  here  is  my 
heart  for  you — my  Love  of  all  the  World. 

"You  think  me  a  cheat  in  love ;  that  I  promise 
and  do  not  pay.  You  think  I  trifle  with  passion, 
and  that  yours  is  the  deeper  hurt  and  the 
realer  love.  You  are  wrong,  Dear.  Ask  your 
self  what  you  would  give  up  for  it.  *  Come  now, 
be  honest,'  as  you  say — then  ask  yourself  what 
I  would  give  up.  You  know  the  difference  in 
the  answers ;  the  difference  between  nothing  and 
everything;  everything  but  a  feeble  sense  of 
right,  which  forbids  me  the  dishonesty  of  eating 
one  man's  bread  and — oh,  don't  you  see  I  should 
make  you  loathe  yourself  in  the  end? 

So  until  you  love  me  better,  more  and 
better  than  yourself,  we  must  not  meet.  You 
are  right  there.  I  don't  think  we  shall  escape 
each  other  in  the  end.  We  shall  meet  as  we 
have  met  before,  but  not  until  it  is  made  honest 
and  right.  We  are  young  and  love  will  claim  its 

151 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


tribute  from  us  both  yet.  But,  oh,  this  mean 
time  !  Why  do  we  waste  these  great  gold  days, 
these  deep  dream  nights,  when  we  are  young? 
These  are  our  great  years  and  we  are  letting 
them  go  by  empty-handed. 

"Yet  I  have  to  thank  you  for  the  very  greatest 
thing  in  my  life,  my  armour,  my  coat  of  mail,  my 
immunity  from  any  lesser  thing  than  loving  you, 
with  all  my  flesh  and  blood,  and  all  my  spirit 
and  strength.  I  am  not  big,  but  my  love  is,  and 
it  will  claim  you  again. 

"But  not  till  you  can  see  with  my  eyes,  its 
right. 

"Don't  think  I  undervalue  you.  I  know  your 
gifts  and  appreciate  them  as  few  do.  I  want  to 
see  you  use  use  them  and  attain  a  high  place  in 
art  and  life.  You  can,  you  know,  for  you  are 
one  whom  the  gods  love. 

"If  you  do  not  want  the  only  kind  of  love 
which  I  dan  still  offer  you,  then  this  must  be 
good-bye  for  us.  You  see  here  am  I  all  un- 

152 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


queened  before  you,  and  you  know  the  best  and 
the  worst  of  me.  Ah,  my  Chevalier,  my  Chev 
alier,  be  very  kind  to  me,  because  I  love  you! 
I  love  you  !  I  love  you  ! 

u  Yours, 


"I  think  you  shall  have  this  after  all,  the  first 
love-letter  I  have  ever  sent  you,  though  not  by 
a  long  way  the  first  I  ever  wrote  you." 

May  7th. 

His  characteristic  reply  has  just  been  brought 
to  me. 


DEAR:   Please  stay  at  home  to-night 
for 

"Your 

"CHEVALIEB." 

So  again  I  am  waiting.    I  have  thrown  open 
the  window  to  the  sweet  English  spring  night, 

153 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


and  that  I  may  the  sooner  hear  the  sound  of 
wheels.  I  went  to  the  piano,  and  sang  Tolstoi's 
exultant  spring  song. 

" and  joy  is  near, 

For  my  love  is  coming — my  love  is  coming — 
My  love  is  here — 
My  love  is  here." 

And  he  was,  for  the  last  note  ended  in  a  kiss, 
as  he  bent  over  me. 

"How  did  you  get  in!"  I  asked,  gravely. 

"By  the  door,"  he  answered,  innocently. 

"And  the  little  maid  let  you?"  I  was  very  in 
dignant. 

"I  told  her  Madame  was  expecting  me." 

"And  what  do  you  call  this — this " 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  his  charming  im 
pudence,  "since  you  ask  me,  I  should  call  it  a 
revival  of  the  fittest!" 

I  couldn't  help  laughing  at  his  wit.  And  then 
we  talked  as  lovers  always  do,  I  suppose,  of 
great  and  little  things,  of  his  play,  which  is  go 
ing  well  now,  of  another  in  blank  verse  that  he 

154 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


has  in  his  head,  of  a  little  book  of  poems  shortly 
to  be  issued — and  finally  of  me. 

"You  are  free?"  he  asked. 

" Practically;  I  soon  shall  be." 

"And  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"Earn  my  living  somehow — sing  or  act,  if 
some  one  will  engage  me." 

"Perhaps  I  can  help  you,"  he  answered, 
thoughtfully. 

"It  will  soon  be  necessary  for  some  one  to," 
I  said  lightly. 

He  flushed  quickly. 

"Ah,  my  dear,  you  must  not  let  yourself  need 
anything;  you  must  come  to  me.  Ah,  Junia,  if 
you  could  but  see  things  as  I  do!" 

"And  if  you  could  but  see  them  as  I  do!"  I 
smiled. 

"You  do  not  love  me,"  he  said  sadly. 

I  laughed  straight  out.  "It  is  you  who  do  not 
love  me!" 

"I  do,  dearest,  but  I  know  myself.  I  shall 
155 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


never  make  a  success  of  marriage.  But  love  is 
different.  Our  race  are  the  best  lovers  in  the 
world — and  the  worst  husbands." 

"I  can  so  imagine,"  I  answered,  with  a  shake 
of  the  head. 

"But  if  I  had  met  you,  long  ago,  my  Dear, 
my  Sweet,  before  I  made  so  many  mistakes  in 
life " 

"You  would  have  made  them  just  the  same; 
or  other  ones." 

"No,  you  could  have  made  anything  of  me." 

We  women,  poor  dears,  we  do  love  to  think  we 
do  men  good,  that  is  why  this  is  a  subtle  way  of 
appealing  to  us. 

So  to  change  the  subject  I  said,  "I  made  you 
a  little  song  the  other  day,  words  and  music 
both.  Shall  I  sing  it  to  you?" 

"Do,"  and  the  look  and  tone  were  a  caress. 

So  I  sang  my  simple  little  song : 

"There  are  the  trees 
Leaning  to  the  night, 
As  I  lean  to  you. 

156 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"There  are  the  birds 
Waiting  for  the  light, 
As  I  wait  for  you. 

"There  is  the  sea 
Urging  to  the  shore, 

As  I  urge  toward  you — 
Crying  'Love  more!    Love  more! 

E'en  as  I  do.' " 

Its  crescendo  is  very  low  and  deep,  and  its 
last  line  like  a  secret,  whispered. 

He  came  over  and  took  my  two  hands  in  his, 
drawing  me  toward  him. 

" Darling,  don't  you  see,  that  is  what  we  must 
do,  you  and  I! — 'Lean  together  toward  the 
night' — wake,  like  birds,  together  in  the  light, 
because  we  are  'urged'  by  the  big,  sweet,  natural 
things  in  both  of  us — June !  My  June !" 

He  had  me  close  in  his  arms — he  even  hurt  me 
— and  I  shut  my  eyes  and  loved  the  pain  of  it.  I 
tried  for  just  a  second  to  think  of  all  the  argu 
ments  I  could  use  against  him,  when  he  was 
away,  but  what  did  they  avail  in  their  grey  lone 
liness  against  this  warm  vitality  and  magne- 

157 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


tism?  I  let  them  go,  holding  him  off,  with  both 
hands  against  his  breast,  and  my  eyes  in  his,  as 
I  thought  aloud: 

"A  man,  and  a  woman,  and  a  little  lifetime — 
and  that  is  all  we  know!" 

And  it  seemed  to  me  the  great  summer  flowed 
toward  us  on  the  wild  spring  tide,  as  we  lay 
heart  on  heart. 

May  10th. 

I  said  I  would  give  up  all  for  you,  "all  but 
my  feeble  sense  of  right."  Now  even  that  is 
gone.  I  resign  it  willingly  into  your  hands.  I 
will  think  your  thoughts,  do  your  will,  live  your 
life.  What  can  you  have  but  all  of  me  1  What 
can  I  offer  less  than  all  myself  to  you? 

Dear,  when  a  woman  loves  a  man,  as  I  love 
you,  what  hope  is  there  for  her?  Is  it  so  wrong? 
Isn't  instinct  a  better  guide  than  precept?  The 
instinct  that  elects  its  own  with  every  breath 
and  heart-beat  of  the  body,  with  every  thought 

158 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


of  the  mind  f  Yes,  yes,  yes !  It  is  only  the  double 
life  that  is  so  wrong.  The  awful,  appalling  dis 
honesty  of  it!  Oh,  if  you  would  but  save  me 
from  it,  or  consent  to  let  me  save  myself !  What 
will  we  do  when  it  is  over  ?  Will  it  be  dust  and 
ashes'?  Should  we  not  rather  part  now  in  the 
height  of  our  sweet,  strong  passion,  denying  it 
indulgence  in  little  ways  for  shame  of  belittling 
so  great  a  thing?  Mine  is  a  passion  of  soul  as 
well.  Yours — I  don't  know — I  sometimes  think 
I  have  never  reached  your  soul,  and  then  I  re 
member  how  beautifully  it  answers  when  I  call 
"My  Chevalier." 

Oh,  how  can  I  give  you  up,  when  every  need 
in  me  finds  fulfilment  in  you? 

May  17th. 

He  has  taken  a  tiny  house  from  a  friend  who 
is  going  away  for  the  summer,  and  is  going  to 
move  in  next  month,  he  tells  me.  It  will  be 
much  easier  to  meet  then. 

159 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


Oh,  I  am  so  happy,  so  happy,  so  happy;  and, 
heavens!  how  I  sing!  And,  "You  grow  so 
pretty,  Fraulein,"  said  my  dear  old  professor 
to-day. 

"Ah,"  I  said  gaily,  "it's  because  I'm  happy, 
and " 

"Ah,"  he  answered  back,  mocking  me,  "why 
is  it  that  it  is  you  are  so  happy?" 

' '  That  would  be  telling ! "  I  said,  laughing  in 
sheer  delight. 

He  turned  away,  shaking  his  dear  old  head. 

"It's  a  good  world — in  the  springtime,"  he 
said  softly. 

And  I  had  all  I  could  do  not  to  hug  him — for  I 
thought  so,  too. 

May  21st. 

I  used  to  wonder  how  people  excused  these 
things  to  themselves ;  how  they  faced  themselves 
in  their  heart 's  mirror.  And  now  I  know — they 
don't.  With  eyes  open,  seeing  and  understand 
ing,  they  make  a  simple  choice.  We  all  must 

160 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


take  our  chance  of  happiness.  Some  find  it  in 
being  good.  I  didn't.  Health  and  hope  both 
left  me  during  the  year  I  tried  it,  and  now,  how 
they  are  coming  back  to  me !  Oh,  how  dare  we , 
be  so  happy?  We  who  ought  by  every  law — 
and  we  recognize  this  and  know  it — to  be  miser 
able,  wretched,  yet  what  happiness  we  have 
found,  worth  all  the  rest  of  life !  I  suppose  we 
shall  pay  sometime,  somewhere;  one  generally 
does,  for  all  one  gets  in  this  world.  Well,  I  shall 
not  grumble  at  the  price.  /  shall  have  had  its 
worth.  I  started  to  thank  God  for  it  out  of  my 
brimming  heart,  and  then  caught  my  breath 
hard,  and  remembered  I  was  thanking  Him  for  a 
sin — it  shook  me  to  the  roots.  That  one  should 
wear  so  splendid  a  thing,  one's  greatest  posses 
sion,  one's  only  gem,  covered  with  mud.  My  soul 
shudders  at  my  heart.  But  my  heart  triumphs, 
and  laughs — yes,  laughs — and  is  glad  in  the  sun 
and  in  the  dark,  because  at  last  Nature,  great 
sweet  Mother  Nature,  is  my  friend,  and  Desire 

161 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


conspires  with  me,  instead  of  against  me,  and 
I  sing — I,  such  a  sinner!  I  sing  for  the  very 
joy  of  living !  for  the  joy  of  youth,  and  beauty, 
and  youth — and  sinning!  I  feel  the  awfulness 
•of  it,  too.  I  'know  and  understand.  I  loathe 
myself  in  my  knowledge  and  understanding ;  yet 
even  at  that  price,  I  am  not  sorry.  I  am  glad; 
glad  with  gladness  above  right  or  wrong,  or 
hope  or  fear,  that  just  is.  I  know  the  "light 
that  never  was  on  sea  or  land" — I  know  the 
"new  Heaven  and  the  new  earth" — and  I  had  to 
find  them  in  this  way.  But,  "What  o'  the  way 
to  the  end?"  I  have  found  them  in  you,  Dear,  in 
you. 

May  25th. 

He  is  away  for  a  few  days  now,  with  his 
mother  in  the  North.  I  wonder  if  some  day  I 
shall  meet  her  and  tell  her  how  I  thank  her  for 
giving  him  birth.  I  smile,  a  little  sadly,  to 
think  how  surprised  she  would  be  to  hear  any 

162 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


woman  say  that.  I  fancy  his  mother  is  the  only 
woman  whom  he  has  ever  made  happy  for  long. 

It  is  a  strange  thing  to  snatch  joy  in  the  teeth 
of  Fate,  like  living,  as  the  Swiss  villagers  do,  in 
the  very  shadow  of  the  avalanche.  At  any  mo 
ment,  Fate,  or  the  avalanche,  may  fall ;  one  but 
lives  for  what  there  is  in  the  moment. 

And  in  spite  of  my  knowledge  of  the  world 
and  of  how  these  things  must  end,  and  of  his 
own  nature — "unstable  as  water,  thou  shalt  not 
endure" — yet  I  am  happy  for  now,  and  I  can't 
look  ahead;  I  can  only  live  one  day,  one  night 
at  a  time.  And  right  or  wrong,  somehow  I  am 
going  to  be  happy.  These  last  two  miserable 
years  are  straight  against  my  original  nature. 
"Well,  I  would  rather  have  them  than  all  the  rest. 
I  am  not  /  any  longer.  I  am  you.  That  is  the 
tragedy  of  it  with  a  woman.  But  I  am  going  to 
be  happy.  I  will  love  him  too  greatly,  too  un- 
askingly  to  mind  whatever  comes.  I  have  had 
terrible  hours.  They  shall  not  strike  again  for 

163 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


me.    One  exhausts  one's  capacity  for  suffering 
at  such  times. 

"O  benefit  of  ill!  now  I  find  true 
That  better  is  by  evil  still  made  better; 
And  ruined  love  when  it  is  built  anew 
Grows  fairer  than  at  first,  more  strong,  far  greater" 

One  who  knew  wrote  that. 

Ah,  who  would  have  dreamed  we  could  have 
built  it  up  again  so  strong  and  fair?  All  my 
soul  is  aching  to  express — oh,  for  some  outlet, 
some  outlet,  through  which  all  this  great  love  in 
me  should  escape  and  bless  someone  else !  Not 
one  only — that  first,  last,  and  above  all;  but 
after  that,  many,  to  bless  many!  There  is  so 
much  love  in  me,  so  much  passion  of  life,  such 
vigour  of  joy,  that  I  feel  I  could  take  the  world 
in  my  arms  and  rock  it ! 

My  Chevalier,  my  preux  Chevalier,  you  are 
the  Sun  on  my  brown  Earth!  You  call 
forth  such  things  in  me !  I  have  many  flowers 
hidden  here  in  my  bosom — little,  tender  seeds 
waiting  for  the  warmth  of  your  touch.  Ah,  if 

164 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


our  love  should  ever  reach  the  summer  solstice, 
and  these  things  that  are  hidden  beneath  should 
break  forth,  why,  what  a  harvest  to  bless  you ! 
Beloved,  my  Well  Beloved,  would  I  could  yield 
it  up — all,  all  I  have — and  then  discover  more 
to  yield  it  up  again ! 

Your  kiss  is  on  my  heart,  and  your  breath  is 
on  my  lips,  but  deeper  than  my  heart,  higher 
than  my  lips,  is  my  spirit  sense  that  enfolds  you, 
that  blesses  you,  all  the  years  of  my  life,  all 
the  eternity  I  can  conceive.  0  Creator !  0  Won 
derworker!  0  Awakener  of  my  Womanhood!  I 
love  you  in  all  ways,  and  always  I  love  you ! 

May  29th. 

Two  letters  came  up  on  my  breakfast  tray  this 
morning.  One  from  Victor  saying  he  would  be 
back  before  the  first  of  June  to  establish  himself 
in  the  little  house  which  he  has  sub-leased  from 
a  friend  for  the  season.  "It  is  very  quaint  and 
interesting,"  he  wrote,  "and  I  have  sent  a  good 

165 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


many  of  my  own  things  there  already — to  make 
it  ready  for  you.  You  must  think  of  it  as 
'ours.*  I  have  engaged  two  Japanese  servants, 
so  I  think  we  shall  be  safe.  What  shall  we  call 
it — our  Castle  in  Spain — our  'Wish  Come 
True,'  or  just  'Home'?  Ah,  I  miss  you  so! 
But  day  after  to-morrow" — and  there  followed 
a  delicious  rough  sketch  of  two  people  ecstatic 
ally  wrapped  in  each  other's  arms,  and  under 
neath  the  words : 

"Journeys  end " 

What  a  boy  he  is!  I  don't  think  he'll  ever 
grow  up. 

The  other  letter  was  from  dear  Polly  in  New 
York. 

She  said  his  play  was  meeting  with  immense 
success  over  there,  as  she  gathered  it  was  here, 
and  that  "the  author  was  much  talked  of,  and 
seems  to  be  as  interesting  a  subject  of  discus- 

166 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


sion  as  the  play.  Women  almost  invariably  ad 
mire  and  like  him ;  men  are  reserved  about  him. 
Splendid,  superior  women  like  Mrs.  Chester, 
while  she  has  the  most  intense  appreciation  of 
his  brilliant  qualities,  are  not  in  the  least  de 
ceived  as  to  his  character.  'The  French  and 
English  temperament  quarrel  in  him,'  she  said 
to  me,  'but  the  French  predominates.  He  is  an 
artist  to  his  finger-tips,  an  artist  in  life,  in 
love,  as  well  as  in  letters.  He  is  also  a  connais- 
soeur'  (don't  know  how  to  spell  it).  So  I  was 
almost  sorry,  June,  dear,  when  you  wrote  that 
you  were  seeing  something  of  him  in  London. 
Don't  see  too  much,  I  beg  of  you.  He  came 
near  enough  to  shipwrecking  your  life  as  it  was. 
I  know  the  fascination  of  such  a  companionship, 
but  trust  to  your  old  friend  Polly,  who  is  used 
to  dissecting  men,  women,  and  emotions,  and 
making  literary  copy  of  them.  I  think  he  is  of 
that  type  of  genius  that  is  close  to  degeneracy 

one  with  rare  gifts,  but  with  no 

167 


THE  WOMAN  HEKSELF 


power  of  character  to  use  them.  They  will  be 
submerged  by  the  inroads  of  the  dissipations  of 
life.  That's  a  long  phrase,  but  a  true  one.  I  am 
such  a  privileged  person  by  right  of  our  old 
friendship  that  I  can  say  these  things  to  you. 
You  must  not  dissipate  emotionally,  Junia.  You 
must  work,  for  I  feel  there  is  work  in  some  line 
for  you  to  do.  Don't  you  think  the  stage  would 
offer  you  as  good  a  career  as  music?  The  road 
to  operatic  goals  is  long  and  long,  whereas,  with 
natural  endowment  like  yours,  you  could  begin 
to  earn  almost  at  once  on  the  stage.  If  you 
come  back  this  fall  I  think  I  can  pull  a  few 
strings  for  you,  that  may  get  you  a  position. 
Of  course  it  wouldn't  be  a  big  one  to  begin  with, 
but  it  would  be  a  living,  and  a  purpose  to  live 
for.  What  do  you  think?" 

And  then  I  caught  my  breath  over  what  fol 
lowed. 

"It  seems  to  be  tacitly  understood  that  you 
and  Richard  have  separated.  You  know  how 

168 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


those  things  are,  when  people  cease  to  entertain 
and  go  about  together.  By  the  way,  I  heard 
that  Eichard  had  sailed  for  London  last  week. 
Did  you  know  he  was  coming!  How  are  things 
going  between  you  and  him?  When  do  you  ex 
pect  your  decree?" 

Eichard  Trent  in  London !  Why,  what  should 
he  be  doing  here  ? 

May  31st. 

Thursday  came  Polly's  letter,  and  Friday 
Victor  came  back;  and  of  that  Friday — well,  I 
should  go  out  of  my  head,  I  think,  if  it  were  not 
for  this  book  to  talk  things  over  with.  Some 
how  I  seem  to  understand  things  better  as  I 
write  of  them. 

The  day  was  hot,  unusually  sultry,  and  we  sat 
on  the  couch  by  the  window.  He  told  me  of  his 
visit  to  his  mother,  of  her  pride  and  joy  in  him, 
of  how  lovely  the  country  looks,  and  of  the  little 
house  he  was  to  move  into  to-morrow. 

"It  is  all  ready,"  he  said,  happily.    "And 
169 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


there  are  birds  and  flowers  and  the  two  Japs 
there  now.  I  think  I  shall  let  them  understand 
that  we  are  secretly  married.  Then  you  can 
come  and  go  as  you  like.  You  see,  I  do  think  of 
you,  dear." 

He  was  tired  after  his  long  journey,  and  the 
afternoon  was  very  hot.  So  presently  he  put 
his  head  in  my  lap,  placed  my  hand  on  his  hair, 
with  mute,  intimate  invitation,  and  smiled 
dreamily. 

"May  I  go  to  sleep?" 

"Of  course,  if  you  like.  But  isn't  it  very  un 
comfortable?" 

"No,  heavenly;  there's  a  little  book  in  my 
pocket — if  you "  his  voice  trailed  off. 

Very,  very  gently  my  hand  caressed  the  thick 
dark  hair  until  I  saw  he  slept.  Then  I  reached 
for  the  "little  book,"  settled  myself  comfort 
ably  against  the  pillows  and  began  to  read.  It 
was  just  a  simple  little  book  of  verse  called 
"Love-Songs  and  Lullabies."  I  think  the  lat- 

170 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


ter  sung  themselves  out  of  his  heart  for  the  dear 
little  daughter  in  France.  But  the  Love-Songs  1 
I  wondered  who  could  have  inspired  them  all, 
and  then  I  saw  the  dedication : 

"To  her  whose  name  is 
'JUNE.'  " 

Ah,  what  have  I  ever  done  to  deserve  such 
happiness! 

I  read  them  all  over  again  while  the  man  with 
his  head  in  my  lap  slept  the  sleep  of  a  tired  child. 
Presently  I  became  aware  of  another  presence 
in  the  room,  and  thinking  it  was  the  little  maid 
with  the  tea-things,  looked  up  with  a  warning 
"Hush!" 

But  it  was  not  the  little  maid — it  was  my  hus 
band! 

"Richard!" 

Low  as  the  cry  was,  it  waked  Victor.  He 
looked  up  at  me  in  bewilderment  for  a  second, 
then  seeing  my  eyes  fixed  beyond  him,  followed 
their  gaze,  and  grasped  the  situation  at  once. 

171 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


He  rose  instantly.    I  rose  also,  but  stood  silent. 
The  two  men  bowed  ceremoniously. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  Richard  quietly. 

"Mr.  Trent." 

They  seemed  to  measure  each  other  with  their 
eyes  for  an  interminable  space  of  silence.  Then 
Richard  turned  to  me. 

"I  came,"  he  said,  in  curious,  even  tones, 
"because  I  was  troubled  about  you.  I  had 
heard  that  M.  le  Comte  was  in  London,  and  I 
feared" — he  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us 
— "I  feared — what  I  find  confirmed."  His 
voice  was  grave,  yet  very  gentle.  "I  knew 
what  you  were  capable  of  giving,  Junia,  and  I 
knew  what  this  man  was  capable  of  accepting. ' ' 
He  had  hardened  again.  "So  I  came  to  save 
you — if  I  could.  I  see  I  am  too  late. ' ' 

It  was  horrible.    There  was  nothing  to  say. 

Then  Richard  turned  to  the  Count  again: 

"You  knew,  whatever  the  nominal  grounds, 
our  divorce  was  really  got  on  account  of  you!" 

172 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


And  Victor  spoke  for  the  first  time : 

"If  the  lady  will  accept  my  hand  in  marriage, 
when  she  is  free,  I  shall  be  deeply  honoured." 

I  caught  my  breath,  but  could  not  speak. 

"I  think,"  said  Eichard,  with  stern  antago 
nism,  "we  will  leave  'honour'  out  of  this  ques 
tion." 

He  turned  to  me.  "Don't  think  I  blame  you, 
Junia.  I  understand.  "Women  have  not  men's 
code.  But  I  can't  let  you  play  fast  and  loose 
with  your  life.  It  was  given  me  in  trust,  you 
remember,  by  an  old  gentlewoman" — his  voice 
broke. 

And  that  summer  day  so  long  ago,  and  Grand 
ma's  words:  "I  say  to  you  as  I  said  to  my 
daughter's  husband,  'Be  good  to  Junia!'  " 
rushed  back  on  me ;  but  though  my  cheeks  shiv 
ered  and  the  tears  blinded  me,  I  could  not  speak. 

Eichard  went  on  after  a  bit :  "So  you  must 
marry,  Junia;  you  owe  me  that  much  repara 
tion,  that  I  may  feel  you  are  safe  and  happy. ' ' 

173 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"Richard!  Richard!"  I  found  my  voice  at 
last.  " Don't  you  see  I  can't?  Marriage  under 
such  conditions  would  be  a  kind  of  price.  I  may 
give,  but  I  cannot  sell  myself." 

"You  shall  not  undersell  yourself!"  said 
Richard,  grimly. 

Victor  turned  to  me  quietly.  "  There  is  no 
question  of  that,"  he  said,  simply.  "This  thing 
is  not  forced.  I  love  you.  I  ask  you  to  marry 
me  because  of  that. ' ' 

Richard  stood  by  the  bookcase,  his  profile 
sharp  against  it,  inflexible  as  steel. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "I  think  you  know  me 
well  enough,  Junia,  to  know  that  when  I  say  a 
thing  must  be,  it  is. ' ' 

"That  is  not  the  way,"  said  Victor,  quickly. 
He  came  over  to  me  and  took  my  hand. 

"June,  I  am  asking  you  to  be  my  wife,  be 
cause  I  love  you,  because  I  believe  that  you  love 
me." 

They  were  a  man's  words,  spoken  with  a 
174 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


woman's  fine  sympathy,  and  I  bowed  my  Lead. 
Then  together  we  faced  Richard. 

"That  is  settled,  then,"  he  said,  in  those  curi 
ous  even  tones,  "when  our  decree  is  granted. 
It  will  be  some  months  yet;  I  shall  expect  you 
to  stand  by  your  word.  So  it  becomes  a  ques 
tion  of  honour,  after  all." 

"I  have  given  mine  away,"  I  said,  and  my 
falling  hand  struck  a  crash  out  of  the  piano  keys 
that  must  have  jarred  us  all,  tense  and  strung 
as  we  were. 

"Then  there  is  nothing  else  to  say,"  said 
Richard,  after  a  silence,  "except  good-bye." 

My  lips  moved,  but  I  do  not  think  "good-bye" 
came  through  them,  before  he  turned  and 
walked  straight  out  of  the  room. 

1  shall  always  hear  those  retreating  footsteps. 
.They  grew  louder  in  my  ears  than  anything  else 
— down  the  passage,  down  the  stairs,  through 
the  outer  door,  down  the  steps,  along  the  pave 
ment,  until  they  were  lost  among  the  other 
hurrying  thousands,  walking  I  knew  not  where. 

175 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


" Good-bye,"  I  said  aloud  then,  and  fell — 
into  blackness  and  silence. 

•  •  • 

If  the  big  scenes  of  life  were  written  down,  the 
scenes  tense  with  feeling,  hard  with  decision, 
tremendous  with  consequence,  how  simply  they 
would  read.  I  have  always  wondered  why  we 
say  the  least  when  we  feel  the  most. 

When  I  revived  after  that  period  of  uncon 
sciousness  I  found  myself  safe  in  your  arms, 
Beloved,  and  your  face,  tender  and  anxious, 
bending  over  me.  Ah,  it  was  I  who  was  the 
child  then,  and  you  were  the  man.  I  think  we 
said  very  little.  I  only  remember  your : 

11  Thank  God,  I  have  a  home  to  take  you  to !" 
and  you  stayed  with  me  that  I  might  not  think, 
might  not  remember,  might  not  brood,  as  women 
do,  over  unalterable  things.  I  owe  you  so  much 
— you  saved  my  woman's  pride,  by  the  way  you 
appealed  to  me ;  yet,  oh,  I  am  not  happy  at  this 
forced  thing !  I  gave  so  freely  to  you,  all  I  had, 

176 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


all  I  was,  asking  nothing  back  in  return  but  your 
love  and  loyalty,  and  not  all  your  tenderness 
can  hide  from  me  that  the  gift  of  marriage  was 
forced  from  you.  Therefore,  it  is  a  kind  of 
price  put  on  my  love,  and  I  shudder  away  from 
it. 

Yet  if  it  had  come  of  your  own  free  will,  how 
happy  I  should  be ! 

June  2d. 

Foolish  little  "We — all  of  us — to  take  big  Life 
so  seriously;  to  despair  and  agonize,  and  try 
to  escape  him,  unmindful  of  the  good  days  that 
may  be!  He  is  only  a  Bogey,  this  Life;  say 
boo  to  him,  and  he  retreats.  He  needs  to  be  bul 
lied  and  used,  then  he  respects  you,  then  he 
drops  into  your  lap  the  good  gifts  of  the  gods. 

Oh,  how  I  prattle !  But  deep  behind  my  .heart 
there  is  a  silence  like  a  temple.  I  walk  through 
that  Soul-space  sometimes,  alone.  Here  are  the 
Hours,  shrined — this  one  a  saint,  that  one  a  sin 
ner,  another  a  soldier — again,  a  pilgrim,  seek- 

177 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


ing,  begging  his  way.  Here's  an  angel-child  of 
an  Hour,  here's  a  torn  old  tramp;  but  each  has 
his  shrine,  and  his  little  candle  of  memory  burn 
ing  before  it.  And  I  pass  through  the  temple 
and  bend  the  knee  before  each,  and  pray  to  them 
to  bless  me — dear  Hours,  poor  Hours,  sad 
Hours,  bad  Hours — beautiful  Hours,  all !  And 
at  the  end  of  the  aisle  is  the  altar,  the  heart's 
altar,  and  the  heart's  Idol,  and  all  the  Hours 
lead  to  him,  as  prophets  point  to  their  Saviour. 
Oh,  Love!  Oh,  Life  and  Love,  which  are  the 
same!  I  lie  prone  in  prayer  before  you,  but 
what  I  say  I  know  not.  There  is  no  earthly 
language  for  it,  yet  what  should  I  know  of  a 
heavenly  tongue?  I  think  some  great,  sweet, 
midway  Angel  listens  and  will  translate  it  all 
to  God,  and  make  Him  understand.  It  is  a 
prayer  for  forgiveness  first,  then  for  success, 
to  make  you  happy,  and  it  is  thanksgiving  at  the 
end. 

Your  ring,  with  its  beautiful  motto,  lies  heav- 
178 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


ily  on  my  finger,  the  pledge  of  the  smaller  one 
that  shall  be ;  but  I  shall  love  this  best,  because 
you  have  worn  it,  because  you  drew  it  off  your 
own  little  finger  to  give  it  to  me — the  winged 
double-headed  creature  that  seems  significant  of 
your  brilliant  race.  I  shall  wear  it  with  hon 
our,  very  proudly. 

Ah,  great  Spirit  of  Love,  walking  abroad  in 
strange  sad  places,  show  me  how  to  make  thanks 
to  him,  for  all  he  is  to  me — for*  all  he  has  done 
for  me. 

Our  little  house — our  castle — oh,  bless  it  to 
us! 

June  llth. 

There  is  one  day,  one«night,  in  which  we  say, 
"I  have  never  been  as  happy  as  this  in  all  my 
life."  I  was  dreaming  over  the  piano,  setting 
bits  of  verse  to  fragments  of  music,  when  Vic 
tor  came  in  unannounced,  and  unexpectedly,  his 
face  fine  with  tenderness.  He  stopped  my  cry 
of  delight  with  the  seriousness  of  his  look,  and 

179 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


said,  * '  My  Sweet,  I  want  you  to  know  I  am  mar 
rying  you  for  nothing  but  Love,  because  I  love 
you — for  no  other  reason.  I  was  afraid  you 
might  think,  might  doubt,  and  I  said  to  myself, 
'I  will  just  go  and  tell  her.'  " 

How  I  adore  you  for  the  sweet  foolishness  of 
it,  my  Very  Own! 

You  had  a  victoria  waiting  at  the  door  and 
we  drove  through  the  park,  beautiful  with  June. 
You  reached  for  my  hand  and  held  it  hard 
against  your  heart,  careless  who  should  see,  like 
any  "  'Any  and  'Arriet,"  and  the  spell  of  the 
night  got  into  our  blood,  our  pulses  cried  out 
-with  the  joy  of  contact ;  it  was  a  Dream  Heaven 
— we  were  young — beautifully,  divinely  young, 
and  shy  with  it  before  each  other.  You  sent 
away  the  carriage  at  your  own  door  and  we 
went  in  together.  We  can  just  see  the  park 
from  one  of  the  windows.  How  sweet  it  looked 
in  its  cool  darkness,  faintly  moonlit !  We  on  the 
couch  looked  out  and  looked  back  at  each  other, 

180 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


and  the  great  summer  swept  over  us.  But  one 
cannot  write  of  these  things.  Words  are  to  such 
feelings  like  motes  in  the  sunlight. 

June  24th. 

All  my  joy  of  you  is  mixed  with  pain.  It  is  as 
if  threads  of  tinsel  got  into  the  weft  of 
heart's  gold.  The  sad  and  unworthy  in  each  of 
us — for  such  is  our  human  life — is  so  mixed 
up  with  "the  beautiful  and  right." 

Eight  years  ago  to-night  I  was  a  bride.  If  it 
is  so  strange  to  remember,  what  would  it  be  to 
foresee?  Our  lives  are  stranger  than  any 
books.  No  one  would  dare  write  of  the  things 
we  know.  Eight  years  ago,  and  now  it  is  close 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  It  is  nearly  over.  I 
think  of  the  strong,  sweet  influence  that  domi 
nated  those  years — all  the  twenties  but  two — 
and  though  he  may  never  know  it,  and  though  I 
shall  probably  never  again  have  the  chance  to 
say  it  to  him,  Richard,  my  husband  once,  and  my 

181 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


friend  always,  I  have  to  thank  him — him  for 
most  of  the  best  gifts  of  life  and  time ;  even  at 
the  last  for  the  best  and  greatest — my  freedom, 
and  my  love. 

I  have  just  been  writing  you — dear  First 
Friend — about  the  breaking  up  of  our  home. 
Oh,  we  were  not  happy  there,  we  were  not 
enough  for  each  other ;  but  what  a  clutch  on  the 
heart  memory  has!  We  were  young  together. 
One  cannot  forget.  I  cannot  right  the  wrong  I 
did  you,  but  the  right  you  did  me  in  return  for 
it  should  comfort  you. 

Good-night,  good-bye.  It  is  strange  to  think 
/  it-  is  all  over.  Our  plant  has  ceased  to  flower. 
There  is  not  even  a  withered  leaf  showing  above 
the  ground.  And  there  is  a  little  song  I  shall 
never  sing  again — about  a  little  ring — I  cried 
over  it,  and  put  it  away  last  night,  and  said, 
then,  as  now,  only  good-night — good-bye. 


182 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


July  7th. 

The  intervals  between  writings  are  long,  for  I 
am  living  too  much  to  write,  too  close  and  deep 
to  find  time  for  anything  else.  The  little  house 
has  come  to  mean  "home"  to  me — "home"  in 
the  heart  of  London — and  no  one  in  the  world 
knowing  where  we  two  are.  I  keep  my  little 
rooms  in  Kensington,  and  my  letters  come  there, 
but,  really,  I  am  at  the  little  house  most  of  the 
time.  I  go  about  five  o'clock,  and  we  dine  to 
gether,  either  there  or  at  one  of  the  big  restau 
rants;  perhaps  we  go  out  after  dinner,  or  per 
haps  we  stay  in,  just  by  ourselves,  the  windows 
open  to  the  lovely  summer  night.  Sometimes 
Victor  writes  in  his  little  library  upstairs,  and 
I  just  sit  by,  to  be  appealed  to  when  he  is  in  the 
throes  of  composition.  I  often  have  to  settle 
the  momentous  question  of  a  phrase,  or  lend  a 
sympathetic  ear  to  a  new  denouement  of  a  much- 
talked-over  plot.  Since  the  success  of  his  play, 
several  actors  and  managers  have  been  after 

183 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


him  to  buy  the  next  output  of  his  pen,  and  his 
head  is  full  of  plays  and  plans.  Sometimes, 
though,  he  throws  them  all  aside,  and  I  play  to 
him  softly,  weaving  an  accompaniment  to  his 
own  words  of  a  lullaby  or  a  love-song,  or  per 
haps  taking  one  of  our  favourites,  Henley  or 
Stevenson,  and  setting  them  to  music  the  world 
will  never  hear.  Just  we  two — just  we  two — • 
may  know  those  things.  If  he  tires  of  that,  and 
stretches  out  an  arm  from  the  couchtwhere  he  is 
lying,  saying :  '  *  Come  and  prattle  to  me,  June, ' ' 
I  go  and  sit  beside  him  and  talk  to  him  of  very 
little,  ordinary  things,  of  some  ridiculous  ex 
pression  of  the  Japs',  of  the  canaries  which  I 
am  training  to  come  out  of  their  cages,  or  of  our 
future  plans — high,  happy,  air-castles!  Some 
times  he  makes  me  talk  in  French,  and  I  do,  halt 
ingly  and  inadequately,  for  I  cannot  think  in  it, 
and  he,  who  is  quite  bi-lingual,  laughs  gaily  at 
my  mistakes.  Or  we  tell  each  other  of  our  child 
hood,  his  rather  sad  and  lonely,  between  French 

184 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


and  English  schools,  or  with  parents  unhappily 
mated,  a  grave  little  English  mother,  and  a  gay, 
profligate,  lovable  French  father.  He  is  a 
strange  mixture  of  them  both,  more  like  his 
father,  I  should  imagine,  on  the  whole,  but  with 
odd  delicacies  and  reserves,  and  conventionali 
ties  that  I  trace  readily  to  his  English  mother. 

Ah,  the  days  are  flying  swiftly,  happily  by. 
Only  think,  last  year  at  this  time  I  never 
dreamed  of  coming  again  into  his  life  or  of  his 
re-entering  mine.  He  and  his  love  and  all  the 
depths  it  troubled  in  me,  belonged  to  the  lovely 
land  of  unreality,  the  land  that  comes  when  you 
close  your  eyes  and  turn  away  wearily  from  the 
things  that  are ;  and  then  came  this  spring,  and 
summer,  when  we  ' '  sang  the  glory  of  the  gold 
en  days. ' '  It  seems  now  it  could  not  have  ended 
any  other  way. 

Yet  with  my  decree  close  upon  me,  the  decree 
that  separates  me  entirely  from  my  husband,  I 
have  to  look  back  and  remember  the  good  gifts 

135 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


lie  has  given.  In  that  first  union  I  was  the  loved, 
in  this  to  come  I  am  the  lover,  not  that  in  each 
case  it  wasn't  mutual,  but  the  balance  lies  on 
those  sides.  I  used  to  go  to  the  first  with  all  my 
troubles,  the  second  will  come  with  his  to  me — 
and  I  shall  withhold  mine,  probably.  There  will 
be  no  sobbing  out  on  the  lad's  shoulder  the 
things  that  trouble  me. 

July  18th. 

He  told  me  once  of  how,  when  I  thought  he 
was  asleep,  I  turned  and  softly  kissed  his  shoul 
der.  "It  was  a  rhapsody  of  riches,"  he  said, 
with  a  little  laugh,  "because  it  was  so  secret,  so 
spontaneous."  I  am  so  glad  I  did  it,  I  am  so 
glad  for  every  look,  or  word,  that  has  given  him 
joy.  I  remember  it,  of  course,  but  to  think  he 
felt  it !  Such  a  soft  little  kiss  it  was,  for  fear 
of  awakening  him,  not  given  because  he  wanted 
it,  but  because  I  needed  to  give  it,  so  beautiful 
he  looked,  asleep  (as  I  thought)  in  the  early 
dawn  twilight.  Not  even  the  birds  were  awake. 

186 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  did  not  dream  it  would  ever  be  seen  except  by 
the  rose  that  looks  whistfully  in  at  our  bedroom 
window.  It  was  evening  twilight  of  the  day 
that  followed,  when  he  told  me  he  had  not  been 
asleep,  to  my  surprise,  for  he  had  made  no 
movement  of  any  kind,  nor  lost  the  sweet  boy- 
look  that  sleep  always  brings  to  him.  It  seems 
strange  that  this  unsolicited  caress  is  the  thing 
he  has  valued  most  for  several  days. 

Ah,  when  this  summer  is  over  what  a  lot  I 
shall  have  to  remember! 


"Why,  time  was  what  I  wanted,  to  turn  o'er 
Within  my  mind  each  look,  get  more  and  more 
By  heart  each  work,  too  much  to  learn  at  first." 


I  shall  remember  the  most  beautiful  welcome 
ever  given  to  a  woman — to  a  hesitating,  hoping, 
fearing,  loving  woman — your  ''Home — home — 
home — home — home,"  over  and  over — your 
' '  Dearest — Dearest — home — home. ' '  I  think 

187 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


that  was  all  you  said  for  a  long,  long  time,  while 
you  took  me  in  your  arms,  and  I  said  nothing  at 
all.  Then  you  knelt,  and  put  my  hand  upon  your 
head,  and  what  we  said  silently  only  the  Great 
Third  knows.  The  absolute  surrender  that  fol 
lowed,  of  each  to  each,  the  drifting  away  into 
dreams,  the  waking  in  the  early  dawn  with  mer 
ry  hunger,  the  scrimmaging  and  cooking — oh, 
my  Dear,  my  Love,  it  was  the  first  of  many 
times.  And  then  our  quarrels — so  serious  over 
trivial  things — one  in  particular,  when  I  walked 
out  of  the  house  with  hurt  dignity  one  night 
after  dinner.  I  went  all  the  way  back  to  Ken 
sington,  in  high  indignation.  I  must  confess  it 
oozed  out  at  every  step,  and  by  the  time  I  had 
reached  my  little  rooms,  I  had  hardly  any  left  to 
sustain  myself  with.  I  have  forgotten  what  it 
was  all  about  now,  but  I  managed  to  make  my 
self  believe  I  was  a  very  ill-treated  woman.  By 
degrees  it  began  to  occur  to  me  that  you  might 
consider  yourself  a  very  ill-treated  man,  but  I 

188 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


put  the  thought  from  me  and  went  to  bed  in  ob 
stinate  denial  of  it.  But  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  re 
membered  how  you  said  once:  "We  shall  prob 
ably  quarrel — everybody  does,  when  they  are 
fond  of  each  other — but  let  us  never  let  the  sun 
set  on  our  wrath.  It's  so  dreadful  to  go  to  sleep 
with  it,  because  then  you  wake  up  with  it. ' '  And 
then  I  thought  of  the  little  house,  and  you  alone, 
without  me,  and  no  orders  given  for  the  fol 
lowing  day,  and  I  knew  just  how  amazed  the 
birds  would  be  when  no  one  set  them  singing  in 
the  morning ;  and  I  knew  the  rose  in  the  window 
box  outside  would  look  in  and  wonder — and — 
and  back  I  walked,  and  rang  your  doorbell  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning!  And  found  dear 
You  still  sitting  up  and  grieving  about  it — and 
was  forgiven,  and  chidden  sweetly — "  always 
forgiven  in  advance,"  you  said,  with  swift  gen 
erosity.  And  while  day  broke  softly  over  the 
neighbouring  roof,  and  crept  down  the  walls  of 
the  tiny  closed-in  court,  how  gently  we  talked 

189 


together,  and  how  tired  we  were  with  the  strain 
of  unusual  emotions,  and  how  we  went  to  bed  at 
last  at  sunrise,  with  hearts  and  minds  at  peace. 
Ah,  my  Dear,  with  your  moss-brown  eyes  and 
your  mouth  that  is  still  "all  foolish  curves," 
what  a  child  you  are!  I  wish  you  could  know 
just  once — and  yet  I  wouldn't  have  you  quite 
know,  either,  how  much  I  love  you ! 

August  15th. 

You  are  being  very  much  neglected,  little 
book.  I  have  other  companionship  than  yours 
now,  so  I  see  less  of  you  than  formerly,  since  I 
do  not  need  you  so  much.  When  one  is  living 
happily,  one  does  not  need  to  express  by  writing. 
But  just  now  he  is  away  for  a  few  days  super 
vising  rehearsals  of  his  new  play,  which  is  to  be 
produced  first  in  Paris;  so,  after  a  whole 
month's  silence  I  am  driven  again  to  you  to  talk 
to. 

Our  summer  is  nearly  over.  We  have  had  a 
190 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


week  of  rain,  and  to-day  there  is  a  kind  of 
prescience  of  autumn  in  the  air. 

"Kender  unto  Caesar  the  things  that  are 
Caesar's" — the  silver  of  tears,  for  you,  my 
Cassar — "and  unto  God  the  things  that  are 
God's,"  the  gold  of  joy.  You  are  both  Caesar 
and  God  to  me,  Beloved,  you  give  me  both  tears 
and  joy.  Tears  for  the  rifts  I  have  learned  to 
know  in  the  fine  fabric  that  is  your  character, 
and  which  I  am  unable  to  mend.  Joy  for  the 
other  stuff  of  which  it  is  woven,  that  makes  all 
my  happiness  in  life. 

So  great  a  gift  has  come  to  me  that  I  feel  the 
price  will  be  required  of  me  in  some  way.  Yet 
why  should  we  think  we  must  pay  for  all  we 
have  ?  One  cannot  pay  royalty  for  favours,  nor 
God  for  gifts.  "We  can  sell  or  lend  to  one  an 
other;  we  can  only  take  from  God.  I  take  you, 
Beloved,  in  reverence,  knowing  it  will  be  re 
quired  of  me  in  return  to  strive  to  make  your 
life — fine!  To  be  all  things  to  you,  the  joy  of 

191 


summer  in  wintertime,  the  joy  of  youth  in  age, 
the  fruition  of  the  harvest  when  it  fails,  all 
things  the  heart  of  man  can  desire,  and  the 
heart  of  woman  can  win,  these  I  must  be  to  you, 
who  are  world,  and  life,  and  God,  and  man,  to 
me. 

There  is  a  baptism  of  the  heart  that  is  fiercer 
than  fire,  and  purer  than  water — the  baptism  of 
tears,  which  sets  its  seal  upon  one  other  soul 
and  says,  "My  own — and  here  is  Sanctuary." 

Dearest,  I  only  explore  these  roofs  and  house 
tops  of  spirit  when  we  are  apart.  When  we  are 
together  I  remember  they  are  there,  but  I  do  not 
inhabit  them.  I  live  by  the  ingleside  with  the 
common,  daily  things  of  life — the  merry  incon 
sequent  happenings,  and  there  we  should  live 
in  warm  cheer  that  shall  radiate  to  others  who 
may  stray  in  sometimes,  to  share  our  hearth- 
fire. 

All  common  things  we  share,  and  all  uncom 
mon  ones,  too,  for  though  I  shall  never  pry  or 

192 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


even  knock  on  a  door  that  is  closed  to  me,  yet 
my  spirit  will  follow,  follow  yours,  right  up  un 
der  the  eaves  of  your  imagination,  nest  with  you 
there,  or,  wing  and  wing,  take  your  pace  in, 
flight. 

Oh,  love  like  this  of  mine  has  tragedy  in  it — 
it  is  so  far  too  deep  for  joy.  It  has  the  ache  of 
foreboding,  of  a  great  soul-wistfulness,  that 
cannot  be  satisfied  here. 

September  10th. 

To-day  came  the  news  that  the  decree  is 
granted.  So — it  is  all  over.  I  have  left  my 
kingdom — abdicated.  It  is  all  over;  and  I  am 
free.  I  have  just  written  the  news  to  him. 

September  12th. 

"I  think  you  are  not  so  gay  of  late,  mein 
Fraulein,"  said  the  professor,  with  kind  con 
cern,  this  morning. 

"You  may  call  me  Fraulein  now,  with  pro- 
193 


priety,"  I  replied,  smiling.    "I  have  decided  to 
go  back  to  my  maiden  name." 

"But  not  for  long,"  said  the  wise  old  man, 
quickly.  "Is  it  not  so,  my  child?  If  I  intrude 
on  a  secret  you  shall  rebuke  your  old  teacher; 
but  I  think  you  have  let  me  guess,  at  various 
times." 

I  laughed  a  little.  '  *  I  was  so  happy,  it  over 
flowed,"  I  said. 

"  J'ose  et  je  vainq,"  he  read  the  motto  on  my 
signet  ring — "yes,  that  is  a  good  motto  for  the 
Toreynes.  They  dare  anything,  and  they  al 
ways  win.  But  it  does  not  always  turn  out  to 
be  the  thing  they  want.  I  knew  his  father  well, 
my  child." 

"Did  you?"  I  cried  in  surprise,  for  he  had 
never  spoken  of  this  before. 

"Yes,  years  ago.  He  was  a  great  wit,  a  bon 
viveur,  the  beau  of  his  time ;  and  his  sisters,  the 
three  most  beautiful  women  in  Paris.  One  of 
them,  Diane — but  that  is  another  story!" 

194    - 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"Oh,  tell  it  me!" 

"No,"  he  answered,  with  a  kindly  shake  of 
the  head,  "it  is  not  for  the  young  and  happy. 
I  hope  you  will  find  much  happiness,  my  child. 
So  the  great  career  is  to  be  abandoned  ? ' ' 

"I  have  found  a  better  thing,"  I  answered. 

"Ah,  well,  if  you  can  be  an  artist  in  life,  it  is 
better,  perhaps,  for  a  woman. ' ' 

An  artist  in  life;  that  is  what  I  must  try  to 
be  for  him.  To  make  it  all  wonderfully  worth 
while. 

September  13th. 

The  American  mail  arrived  to-day,  bringing 
two  letters — one  from  my  father,  in  reply  to 
mine  breaking  for  the  first  time  the  news  of  my 
divorce  to  him,  and  one  from  Polly. 

"It  is  impossible  to  express,"  my  father 
wrote,  "how  your  definite  news  grieved  me.  I 
have  guessed  for  some  time  that  things  were  not 
right  between  you  and  Eichard,  but  I  forebore 

195 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


to  intrude  on  you  with  questions.  I  can  guess 
your  reluctance  to  tell  me  the  true  state  of  af 
fairs  that  made  you  keep  silent  till  they  were 
practically  settled.  You  said  in  your  letter  that 
you  expected  the  decree  in  a  few  days,  and  even 
as  I  write  it  may  have  been  signed.  But  if  it 
is  not,  my  child,  before  it  is  too  late  I  beg  of  you 
to  reconsider.  What  it  is  that  has  driven  you 
apart,  I  do  not  know  and  cannot  imagine.  You 
taught  us  to  love  Eichard,  and  he  has  always 
seemed  to  me  a  man  in  a  thousand;  no,  in  a 
million.  Whatever  your  reasons  are  that  have 
induced  you  to  take  this  step,  I  shall  not  inquire. 
You  were  brought  up  to  consider  the  sacredness 
of  personal  independence,  and  know  my  ideas 
about  that  subject.  I  shall  not  ask  for  any  con 
fidence  you  do  not  choose  to  give  me.  But  we 
are  old-fashioned  down  here  in  Virginia,  and 
divorce  is  a  very  grave  thing  to  us.  Life  is  like 
walking  through  an  orchard,  and  all  the  men 
and  women  are  the  trees;  and  when  I  come  to 

196 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


your  tree,  I  see  a  place  where  a  limb  was  cut  off 
— it  marks  the  tree  and  mars  it. ' ' 

It  is  true,  oh,  my  father,  it  marks  and  mars 
the  life.  No  other  branch  ever  puts  out  from 
the  old  scar;  it  cannot  be  hidden.  There  it 
stays,  dwarfing  the  tree  of  its  entirety.  I  won 
der  if  trees,  like  hearts,  ache  sometimes,  in  the 
places  where  things  were  cut  off  from  them! 

I  took  up  Polly's  letter: 

"  Junia,  dear,"  she  wrote,  "I  had  hoped  to  be 
talking  to  you  here  instead  of  writing,  this 
month.  But  when  you  wrote  of  your  engage 
ment  to  Victor  de  Toreyne,  of  course  I  gave  up 
the  hope.  I  presume  it  is  not  announced  yet, 
as  your  divorce  is  so  recent?  You  know,  with 
out  my  saying,  how  I  wish  you  all  the  happiness 
that  life  can  hold.  May  the  light  of  love  burn 
brightly  all  down  the  future  years  for  you  both ! 
So  I  must  give  up  my  hope  that  you  would  come 

197 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


home  this  fall  and  let  me  help  you  to  a  position 
on  the  stage?  I  have  always  thought  you  were 
fitted  for  it,  but  since  it  is  not  to  be 

"And  now  I  must  tell  you  (for  I  promised  to 
do  it  ,  tho'  it  isn't  pleasant,  I'm  afraid)  that  I 
saw  Mrs.  Chester  the  other  day.  She  asked 
about  you  a  great  deal,  and  said  that  Richard 
himself  had  told  her  about  your  divorce.  '  Polly 
Meredith, '  she  said  suddenly, '  is  Junia  going  to 
marry  the  Comte  de  Toreyne  1 ' '  My  dear,  there 
was  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  own  up,  and  bind 
her  to  secrecy.  After  all,  she  is  one  of  your  old 
est  friends.  She  said,  'I  was  afraid  they  were 
much  attracted  when  they  were  at  my  house ;  but 
that  is  two  years  ago — nearly.  I  had  hoped  it 
would  die  out,  as  those  sudden  infatuations 
often  do.* 

11  'But  this  was  more  than  an  infatuation,'  I 
gently  suggested. 

"  'The  Lord  knows,  I  have  sympathy  with! 
every  degree  of  the  disease,'  declared  the  great 

198 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


lady,  humorously;  'good  or  bad,  it  all  appeals 
to  me.  I  love  the  man  myself.  I  love  all  men 
of  that  type  (there  aren't  many),  but  for  good 
ness'  sake,  tell  Junia  not  to  marry  him ;  or  if  she 
does,  to  do  it  on  the  installment  plan — sort  of 
week-end  visits.  They  can't  be  faithful,  those 
men,  and  when  they  tire  of  a  woman — as  they 
do  of  everything — they  can  make  more  unhap- 
piness  than  ordinary  mortals  dream  of.  Prom 
ise  to  tell  Junia  that  I  said  he  would  be  delight 
ful  to  adopt,  but  to  marry,  never.  Those  are  my 
congratulations !' 

1 '  So  I  put  it  in,  dear,  since  I  promised.  She 
is  very  fond  of  you,  is  Mrs.  Chester.  Her 
brusqueness  is  simply  a  sort  of  'She's  my 
friend,  and  I'll  say  what  I  like  about  her'  feel 
ing. 

"Some  day  I  hope  to  know  your  Chevalier 
better.  Meantime,  my  greeting  to  him  as  a  new 
friend,  for  the  sake  of  my  love  for  you." 

Ah,  dear  Polly ! 

199 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


September  14th. 

We  have  had  an  unusual  week — cold  and  wet 
and  dismal.  It  is  twilight,  and  I  am  sitting  in 
front  of  a  little  fire  which  is  grateful  in  such 
dreary  weather,  thinking,  planning,  of  all  I  shall 
do  when  this  little  house  is  really  mine.  And  a 
dream  comes  to  me  of  accomplished  desire;  a 
desire  completed  in  expression  as  a  sculptor's 
ideal  is  embodied  in  marble: 

Marriage — how  deep  it  goes ! 

Another  man  might  give  me  a  son,  but  no 
other  man  could  give  me  my  son  as  I  see  him 
given  by  you.  Long  before  he  comes  to  me,  I 
seem  to  have  made  acquaintance  with  his  soul. 
It  is  a  soul  that  honours  ours  by  coming  to  us, 
that  sets  its  seal  upon  our  imperfect  love  and 
hallows  its  heart-break.  Yet  do  not  fear  that 
though  he  came  to  me,  I  should  love  him  best, 
for  he  is  higher  and  finer  than  either  you  or  I, 
and  there  is  a  kind  of  loneliness  in  loving  him. 
But  though  he  is  higher  and  finer  than  we,  still, 

200 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


lie  would  be  little  long  and  long,  and  would  need 
us  to  teach  and  guide.  And  we  would  teach  him 
true.  "Where  we  failed,  he  should  succeed.  He 
should  be  to  us 

"The  type  and  sign 

Of  hours  that  smiled  and  shone, 
And  now  are  gone, 
Like   old-world   wine." 

It  is  only  a  dream,  only  a  hope,  but  so  real 
to  me.  I  feel  he  lives  somewhat  in  space — a 
little  soul  drifting  toward  me  for  mothering.  Ah, 
if  the  day  ever  comes  when,  after  long 
labour  and  anguish  that  is  rapture,  and  rapture 
that  is  anguish,  I  lay  him  in  your  arms,  I  shall 
whisper : 

"You  are  no  longer  the  "Well  Beloved — for 
this  is  he.  But  you — you  have  progressed — you 
are  now  the  Best  Beloved." 

I  have  never  called  you  that.  I  am  saving  it 
for  that  moment;  for,  until  it  comes,  there  is 
nothing  to  compare  you  with.  I  will  say : 

"0,  Best  Beloved,  I  lay  our  Well  Beloved  in 
201 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


your  arms  to  show  you  how  I've  borne  your 
image  in  my  brain  and  body,  till  a  part  of  your 
soul  was  born  from  me.  He  is  greater  than 
either  you  or  I,  but  he  will  be  little  long,  long 
lovely  years  when  he  will  need  us.  He  will  be  a 
poet,  and  a  fighter,  and  many  other  things.  Out 
of  great  love  he  will  be  granted." 

September  25th. 
How  terrible  letters  can  be ! 
To-day  came  Victor's  reply  to  my  letter: 

"Your  news,"  his  words  ran,  "came  to  me  as 
a  shock.  I  had  not  thought  you  would  be  free 
so  soon.  It  is  too  late  now,  of  course,  but  if  I 
could  have  advised  you  in  the  beginning,  I  would 
have  asked  you  to  get  the  divorce,  instead  of  al 
lowing  your  husband  to  divorce  you.  That  will, 
if  known,  always  stand  in  your  way,  and  prevent 
you,  even  as  my  wife,  from  being  received  in 
many  places  that  would  otherwise  be  open  to 

202 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


us.  However,  that  is  a  comparatively  small 
thing.  The  thing  that  matters  most  to  me  is  the 
custody  of  my  daughter.  She  is  with  me  now, 
in  charge  of  her  nurse  at  the  hotel.  You  would 
love  her,  Junia,  little  Diane.  But  if  her  guard 
ians  ever  discover  the  truth  about  us,  as  they 
will,  I  fear  she  would  never  be  allowed  to  visit 
us,  and  I  should  lose  her.  However,  even  at 
that  price,  I  stand  by  my  word  to  you,  of  course. 
"When  do  you  wish  it  to  be?" 

There  followed  a  description  of  how  his  play 
was  going  and  talk  of  other  things  that  did  not 
matter.  But  I  read  over  again  that  bit,  and 
something  big  in  me  rose  and  resented  it.  We 
look  at  things  so  differently.  Why,  I  wished 
to  take  the  blame,  since  mine  it  really  was  in  the 
first  place — mine  and  his.  "A  chain  is  no 
stronger  than  its  weakest  link" — I  was  the 
weakest  link  in  our  marriage  chain,  therefore  I 
ought  to  pay  and  not  begrudge  the  price.  I  sup- 

203 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


pose  he  would  say  this  was  very  quixotic  of  me, 
that  a  woman  cannot  afford  to  pay,  and  a  man 
can.  But  I  do  not  hold  that  men  and  women 
should  be  so  different.  Each  should  play  fair, 
or  be  willing  to  pay  the  cost  of  all  the  experi 
ence,  the  sin,  the  joy  that  they  have.  If  they 
are  not  willing — whole-heartedly 

Quite  suddenly  I  saw  what  I  must  do ;  but  the 
sight  appalled  me.  I  said,  ' '  Oh,  no, ' '  to  myself. 
I  tried  to  reason  away  from  it,  but  knew  I  must 
do  it  all  the  time.  I  must  give  him  up.  My 
heart  cried  out, 1 1 1  cannot !  I  cannot ! ' ' 

I  went  to  the  little  house,  where  everything 
beckoned  and  spoke  to  me,  where  his  personal 
ity  is  expressed  in  every  way.  I  wandered  all 
over  its  tiny  space,  fighting  the  conviction  that 
(kept  forcing  itself  on  me  out  of  my  inner  con 
sciousness.  I  couldn't  quite  acknowledge  it,  yet 
I  knew  I  was  saying  good-bye.  Each  low  door 
way,  as  I  entered,  told  me  precious  secrets,  in 
communicable  things,  that  only  the  familiar 

204 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


household  gods  may  know.  0  slanting  walls 
and  low  uneven  ceilings,  and  deep  fireplaces  that 
we  dreamed  in  front  of,  or  slept  in  front  of, 
wrapped  in  each  other's  arms !  0  collie  dog,  who 
lives  over  the  street,  how  I've  watched  your 
grave  and  decorous  behaviour  with  your  annoy 
ing  neighbour,  the  insolent  cat!  0  rose-strewn 
curtains  of  chintz  in  our  bedroom,  that  I  made 
with  my  own  hands!  O  couch,  by  the  lattice 
window,  upstairs  in  the  little  library,  where  we 
sat  in  the  summer  dusk,  watching  the  shadows 
creep  down  the  closed-in  court  and  the  moon 
turn  the  world  to  silver!  0  books  we  read, 
and  piano  we  sang  to!  0  house,  little  house 
of  ours — I  am  looking  at  you  all  for  the  last 
time.  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  Never  again. 
This  is  good-bye.  For  all  the  gracious,  happy 
hours  you've  held — for  the  memory  even — 
your  walls  are  thrilling  still !  But  they  are  the 
tomb  of  my  heart.  I  leave  it  here. 


205 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


September  16th. 

Back  in  my  little  rooms  in  Kensington. 
I  wrote  him  to  Paris : 

' '  MY  DEAE  VICTOE  :  Yesterday  I  had  your  let 
ter,  and  it  made  me  realize  it  would  be  madness 
for  us  to  pursue  our  plans  of  marriage.  What 
ever  I  did,  however  I  should  try,  I  couldn't 
make  it  seem  worth  while  to  you.  You  would 
always  look  on  it  as  a  sacrifice,  and  that  I  could 
not  bear.  Neither  could  I  bear  to  matter  less 
to  you  than  your  little  daughter.  Don't  think 
this  small  of  me.  I  am  not  jealous  of  her.  I 
know  full  well  myself  how  beautiful  a  father's 
love  may  be;  but  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  second 
even  to  that.  You  say  you  will  'standby' 
your  word  to  me,  even  at  the  price  of  losing  her. 
I  cannot  exact  so  great  a  price  of  you.  I  give 
you  back  your  word,  set  you  free — quite  free — 
as  before  you  ever  loved  me. 

"You  remember  I  told  you  in  the  first  place — 
206 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


and  I  repeat  it  now — I  will  not  marry  you  for 
your  chivalry  or  to  restore  my  name  and  po 
sition,  nor  for  any  poorer  thing  than  love — 
the  kind  of  love  I  gave  you  freely  without  re 
gard  to  consequences.  You  cannot  say  it  was 
little  or  selfish,  can  you,  since  it  has  cost  me  all 
I  had  in  life? 

' '  But  I  have  been  glad  to  pay  for  my  happi 
ness  with  you ;  it  made  it  seem  more  real,  more 
deep,  more  lasting.  And  now,  if  it  is  right  for 
me  to  pay  for  both,  I  will  even  do  that. 

"I  am  going  back  to  America — home.  Don't 
follow  me.  Let  me  go.  Do  you  remember  the 
letter  in  'Les  Demi  Vierges,'  which  we  read  to 
gether?  Like  him,  I  could  say:  'Je  ne  te  de- 
mande  pas  de  m'aimer  .  .  .  je  sais  que  tu 
ne  m'aimes  plus.  Je  te  supplie  seulement  de 
ne  pas  effacer  de  ta  memoir  ef  que  tu  m'as  aime. 
Malgre  mon  agonie  maintenant,  je  sais  bien  que 
j'aurai  eu  la  vie  plus  belle,  plus  enviable.  Rien 
n'effacera  cela  .  .  .  et  tu  as  connu  I' amour 
par  moil  Rien  n'effacera  cela!9 

207 


"Nothing  can  take  it  away,  the  knowledge  of 
how  you  loved  me — once.  But  my  love  for  you 
is  made  of  mighty  things  that  shall  endure. 

"Yet  I  must  go ;  there  is  no  other  way  to  leave 
you  free  in  honour. 

"Je  t'aime — je  t'aime — je  t'aime — tonjours. 
Adieu.  JUNIA." 

The  first  letter  got  so  tear-stained  that  I  was 
obliged  to  make  another  copy,  so  I  kept  the  first 
here  in  this  little  book,  which  holds  the  rest. 

And  all  day  I  have  packed.  Luckily,  I  have 
been  able  to  get  passage  for  day  after  to-mor 
row.  I  have  had  no  time  to  think — have  not 
dared — but  now 

Now  all  is  ready  for  the  journey.  The  lug 
gage  has  gone,  all  but  the  cabin  stuff.  This 
is  my  last  night  in  England. 

And  so  the  old  burden  is  back  again.  After 
all,  I  should  almost  miss  it  if  it  were  not  so. 
I  have  gravely  sinned.  I  must  greatly  suffer. 

208 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


And  I  do — I  do.  My  heart  is  crying  on  the 
threshold  of  a  shut  door.  I  have  seen — actually 
seen — happiness  within  my  reach.  Now  the 
door  shuts  on  it,  leaving  me  outside,  just  where 
I  was  before,  only  I  have  had  "the  vision  and 
the  dream. ' '  But  I  have  not  deserved  it.  It 
was  all  wrong  from  the  first.  All  my  misery  is 
because  of  the  happiness  I  saw  and  tried  to 
steal.  I  have  been  a  thief  breaking  into  Heaven, 
but  the  gifts  of  the  gods  are  not  captured  that 
way. 

So  I  am  outside  still. 

Oh,  I  don 't  complain.  I  must  not.  I  have  had 
what  makes  life  worth  while,  glorious.  But  we 
pay  for  such  glory  with  all  the  rest  of  our  days. 
And  they  who  have  the  power  of  temperament, 
"the  sorrowful,  great  gift,"  often  would  ex 
change  it  for  any  of  the  other  gifts  of  life,  of 
just  common  happiness. 

I  try  to  realize  it ;  try  to  realize  we  shall  not 
live  our  lives  together;  that  I  shall  not  meet 

209 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


your  people,  nor  you  mine;  that  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  tell  your  mother  that  I  love  her  for  giv 
ing  you  to  the  world ;  that  I  shall  not  know  again 
the  long  intimate  delight  of  you ;  nor  have  your 
kisses,  nor  feel  you  lie  between  my  breasts.  Hap 
piness  has  touched  us  with  its  mighty  wings, 
but  you  have  made  me  afraid  to  trust  to  them. 
So  I  must  go — away  to  my  separate  struggle,  to 
the  old  purpose  of  work  and  attainment,  which 
even  when  blessed  with  success  fill  so  little  a 
part  of  a  woman's  life. 

Yet  it  is  you  who  should  be  pitied  of  us  two. 
You  have  nothing  left  of  our  great  moments; 
but  I  still  love  you — which  is  all. 

September  17th. 

I  went  to  say  good-bye  to  my  dear  old  friend 
Herr  Von  Seebach  this  morning.  He  was  quite 
broken  up  at  the  thought  of  losing  me,  and  it 
touched  me  deeply. 

"But  you  will  be  coming  back  soon?"  he  said. 
210 


And  out  of  my  burdened  heart  I  answered : 

"No,  dear  mein  Herr,  all  my  plans  have 
changed  ...  I  shall  still  be  'Fraulein,'  " 
and  I  tried  to  smile. 

1  'You  are  not  to  marry  him?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

The  expression  of  relief  that  came  over  his 
face  astonished  me. 

"I  am  very  glad,"  he  said.  "I  know  the  race. 
Ah,  forgive  me,  Fraulein,  but  it  is  better  so. 
You  do  not  think  so  now,  but  one  day  you  will. 
The  heart  will  change." 

"No,  dear  Maestro." 

"But  yes,  my  child;  'tout  passe/  you  know; 
your  dream — my  dream — all  passes — every 
thing." 

"Everything?" 

"Everything  but  work  and  friendship,"  and 
he  took  my  hands  and  pressed  them.  "But 
friendship — that  remains.  And  now,"  he  went 
on  after  a  minute,  "I  can  speak  to  you  of  some- 

211 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


thing  else — something  I  have  long  wished  to 
tell  you — something  I  have  long  had  in  my  mind 
for  you — in  fact,  since  the  first  day  I  heard  you 
sing  last  summer.  Sit  down,  my  child." 

I  obeyed,  wondering  and  impressed  by  the 
eagerness  in  his  tone.  He  smiled  at  me  genially. 

"I  have  been  on  the  point  of  telling  you  about 
this  many  times,"  he  said,  "but  though  your 
voice  developed  week  by  week,  and  your 
dramatic  power  increased,  I  saw,  watching  you, 
as  only  a  teacher  can,  that  it  was  not  I  nor 
music  that  was  responsible  for  this  growth,  but 
your  own  nature  expanding,  your  own  heart 
working.  Later,  when  you  let  me  guess  the  se 
cret  and  the  cause  of  it,  I  was  sorry.  I  feared 
for  you.  Fraulein  Junia, ' '  his  kind  hand  rested 
on  my  shoulder,  "I  am  speaking  now  to  you  as 
a  very  old  friend,  one  who  knew  you  when  you 
were  quite  a  little  girl — with  your  own  people 
at  home — one  who  trained  the  first  crude  qual 
ity  of  voice  into — well,  something  more  than 

212 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


that,"  he  smiled  with  his  habitual  reserve  of 
compliment.  "You  will  therefore  give  me  the 
privilege  of  an  old  friend  to  speak  quite  frankly 
—like  a  father?" 

I  couldn't  answer  in  words,  for  my  throat 
ached  with  restrained  tears,  but  I  leaned  my 
cheek  against  the  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and 
after  a  moment  he  continued : 

"Many  things  go  to  the  making  of  an  artist. 
The  talent  that  is  born  with  him,  the  training  of 
that  talent,  are  only  parts.  One  must  live — 
deeply;  one  must  suffer — sincerely;  often  one 
must  even  sin !  Yes,  my  child,  for  how  can  any 
one  represent  these  things  unless  he  knows 
them?  The  second-hand  sentiment  is  mediocre. 
Many  souls  are  like  unthwarted  little  waves  that 
break  smoothly  on  their  appointed  shore.  These 
bring  us  no  message  from  the  great  Main  of 
Life  of  which  they  are,  nevertheless,  a  part — no 
hint  of  its  depth,  its  power!  It  is  the  great 
surges  with  heads  turned  white  with  lashings 

213 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


from  the  wind,  with  bosoms  terrible  with  break 
ing  force,  with  mighty  movement  resistless  to 
the  main — sky,  sea,  storm — it  is  these  that 
change  our  coast  lines,  trample  our  embank 
ments,  wear  away  our  rocks.  So  it  is  with  those 
driven,  harassed,  mighty  souls  who  bring  us 
messages  from  the  depths  of  life,  and  the  stress 
of  whose  coming  fills  our  minds  with  awe  and 
our  hearts  with  sense  of  the  mystery  and  mas 
tery  of  God." 

I  had  risen,  and  listened  with  held  breath.  His 
words  had  poured  out  like  a  crash  of  invigora 
ting  music. 

"Maestro,  you  are  saying  wonderful  things !" 
"I  get  carried  away,"  he  answered,  "when 
I  think  of  what  it  means  to  create  anything, 
what  deep  experience  of  life,  what  power,  what 
sincerity!  Whether  life  is  moulding  and  crea 
ting,  cutting  and  hammering  into  shape  a  great 
artist,  or  whether  that  artist  in  turn  is  re-crea 
ting  life  in  some  form,  is  it  not  a  great,  a  fine, 

214 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


a  worth-while  thing,  to  have  lived  and  suffered 
for?" 

I  caught  my  breath  again,  for  a  prescience  of 
his  meaning  dawned  on  me. 

"All  this  is  leading  up  to  something,  my  child, 
which  I  have  wished  to  tell  you,  but  you  had  no 
room  in  your  life  for  it  before.  Now,  however, 
listen.  There  is  a  man  in  Europe  who  has  writ 
ten  a  great  poem-story.  It  is  mystical,  sym 
bolic,  dramatic,  hence  it  is  wonderfully  suited  to 
music,  to  opera.  It  has  been  my  great  privilege 
to  be  associated  with  him  in  work,  and  together 
we  have  produced — something  that  I  hope  will 
live." 

"You  have  written  an  opera!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Together  with  him,  yes.  His  is  the  poem; 
mine  the  setting  of  it.  Still  another  man's  will 
be  the  dramatic  production  of  it — and  a  woman 
will  have  the  task  of  creating  the  leading  role. 
You  see  how  many  human  brains  it  takes  to  in 
terpret  a  creative  work." 

215 


THE  WOMAN  HEBSELF 


Beside  this  breadth  of  view  my  own  personal 
troubles  were  fading,  diminishing  in  the  big 
perspective  of  life  as  a  whole.  I  caught  the  cur 
rent  of  his  mental  atmosphere,  and  it  filled  me, 
lifted  me,  recharged  me  with  power. 

"Dear  friend,"  I  said,  "you  are  going  to  ask 
me  to  sing  that  role?" 

He  nodded  buoyantly. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  just  that." 

"But  can  I  do  it — am  I  capable!"  I  asked 
humbly. 

"Ah.  that  we  shall  see.  That  must  be  tested; 
but  I  think  so,  otherwise  I  should  not  suggest  it. 
I  am,  perhaps,  speaking  somewhat  early,  for  I 
have  not  yet  told  my  collaborator,  but  I  think  I 
can  get  you  a  hearing.  I  think  so,  or  I  should 
not  have  spoken  to-day. ' ' 

"Why  did  you  speak — to-day?"  I  asked. 

Again  the  kind  hand  fell  on  my  shoulder. 

"Because,  when  one  has  met  a  loss,  one  must 
quickly  put  something  in  its  place.  If  you  allow 

216 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


a  vacuum  in  your  mind,  you  paralyze  your  ener 
gies,  and,"  he  added,  gaily,  "I  cannot  afford  to 
have  your  energies  paralyzed.  No,  they  are 
worth  too  much  to  me. ' '  Then,  almost  solemnly, 
"And  they  may  be  worth  much  to  many  hun 
dreds  of  people." 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  I  felt  hushed  and 
awed  with  dawning  hope  and  purpose. 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered  strongly.  "You 
have  the  great  gift  of  expression  in  marvellous 
degree." 

Then  rapidly  he  told  me  the  story  of  the  opera 
— with  eager  intensity  he  showed  me,  on  the 
piano,  various  themes,  until  my  imagination 
was  kindled  with  the  glow  from  his.  I  grasped 
the  scope  of  the  story,  its  beautiful  symbolism, 
but  the  way  it  was  worked  out  in  music  I  knew 
would  take  weeks  of  study.  When  I  said  some 
thing  of  this  sort,  he  answered : 

"That  is  true,  but  you  can  begin  at  once.  You 
are  sailing  for  America  to-morrow.  I  follow  in 

217 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


a  fortnight.  We  shall  produce  it  before  the  end 
of  the  year.  You  will  have  a  couple  of  months 
of  study  and  preparation.  Dedicate  yourself  to 
work,  my  child.  Believe  me,  it  is  the  greatest 
happiness  in  life — in  the  long  run. ' ' 

"For  a  man,  Maestro,  perhaps." 

"For  a  man  or  woman  who  has  gifts  above 
the  average/'  he  asserted. 

"Was  that  why  you  looked  relieved  when  I 
told  you  I  was  not  to  marry?" 

He  hesitated  a  second,  then  said: 

"No,  Fraulein;  if  it  had  been  any  other  man 
than  the  Comte  de  Toreyne  I  would  have  al 
lowed  the  artist  in  you  to  be  sacrificed  to  the 
woman — to  the  ordinary  woman's  happiness — 
as  the  ordinary  man  can  give  it  to  her.  But  I 
know  the  Toreynes.  They  have  not  got  it  in 
ihern  to  give  happiness.  I  know  the  race,  three 
generations  of  it,  brilliant  failures  every  one. 
You  remember  I  once  spoke  of  his  father's 
sisters — the  three  most  beautiful  women  in 
Paris  in  their  day?" 

218 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"I  remember,"  I  answered;  "you  said  one  of 
them,  Diane,  was  'another  story' — not  for  the 
young  and  happy." 

His  fine  face  saddened. 

"I  loved  her,"  he  said  simply.  "It  is  long 
ago,  when  we  were  young.  I  worked  for  her— ^ 
two  years.  We  were  secretly  betrothed ;  but  just 
when  I  had  won  some  measure  of  fame  and  suc 
cess,  she  married,  morganatically.  It  did  not 
satisfy  her  pride  or  her  ambition — she  went 
from  man  to  man — she  troubled  many  destinies 
— she  broke  her  own  heart,  and  in  the  end  her 
mind  gave  way.  For  years  she  was  mad,  wild, 
desolate,  alone.  Then,  just  before  she  died,  I 
saw  her,  once.  She  sent  for  me.  She  was  quite 
sane.  She  fell  asleep  with  her  hands  in  mine. 
'I  see  now,'  she  said,  'that  I  have  never  lived* 
— she  said  that,  who  had  lived  so  much ! ' ' 

I  could  not  speak,  but  tears  stood  in  my  eyes. 
He  had  spoken  with  profound  sincerity. 

"I  have  told  you  this  now,"  he  continued,  in 
219 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


a  different  tone,  "to  show  you  how  it  all  passes. 
The  glory  and  the  tragedy  of  life;  the  despair 
and  the  triumph — it  all  passes — all." 

"Then  what  is  it  all  for?"  I  asked,  out  of  my 
weary  heart. 

"For  individual  development,  and  the  gift  of 
sympathy;  for  friendship — that  remains." 

He  stood  like  a  king  commanding  my  better 
self  to  comprehend,  to  shake  off  its  lethargy  of 
suffering,  like  a  king  royally  offering  me  the 
means  wherewith  to  rise.  And  suddenly  I 
stooped  and  kissed  his  hand. 

"For  friendship — that  remains!" 


Now,  as  I  write,  my  eyes  are  brimming.  The 
white  chalk  cliffs  are  passing  from  my  sight. 
We  are  almost  down  to  the  Lizard.  Good-bye, 
England — green,  fair,  merrie  England!  Three 
months  of  happiness  such  as  few  lives  hold. 
Well,  I  had  it — and  it,  too,  has  passed. 

220 


I  have  cabled  Polly.  She  will  meet  the  ship — 
"for  friendship — that  remains." 

New  York,  September  29th. 
I  am  back  in  my  old  rooms  in  the  same  house 
with  Polly.  Nothing  is  changed  but  me.  Every 
thing  is  just  as  it  was  when  I  shut  the  door  and 
turned  the  key  of  the  little  flat  and  went  to  Eng 
land  last  spring.  And  now  it  is  autumn.  Ah ! 
what  a  year !  what  a  year !  To  any  woman  who 
has  passionately  lived  there  must  come  a  reac 
tion,  I  suppose.  It  is  upon  me  now  when  I  yield 
to  the  weakness  of  remembering — 

"November,  the  old  lean  widow, 

Sniffs,  and  snivels,  and  shrills, 
And  the  bowers  are  all  dismantled, 

And  the  long  grass  wets  and  chills; 
And  I  hate  these  dismal  dawnings, 

These  miserable  even-ends, 
These  arts,  and  rags,  and  heel-taps — 

This  dream  of  being  merely  friends." 

We  are  not  even  "merely  friends,"  he  and  I. 
He  has  not  answered  my  letter;  does  not  know 
where  I  am. 

221 


What  should  I  have  done  without  Polly  ?  How 
tender  she  has  been,  and  true !  How  full  of  in 
finite  resource  and  tact  and  sweetness!  And 
yet  they  say  there  is  no  friendship  between 
women!  She  has  gathered  friends  around  me 
just  to  prove  that  I  have  not  lost  them,  and 
talked  over  her  own  work  with  me — her  last 
new  novel — to  show  that  she  valued  my  poor 
little  opinion,  and  to  divert  my  sad  thoughts; 
she  has  taken  me  out  many  tunes  when  her  busy 
brain  should  have  been  writing,  I  am  sure.  She 
has  made  me  seem  valuable  to  her — just  when 
my  pride  is  in  the  dust.  Oh,  Dear  of  mine !  I 
must  try  to  be  worth  it  to  you  for  the  sake  of 
your  faith  in  me. 

We  speak  little  of  Victor.  She  listened  to  my 
account  of  why  I  had  given  up  my  marriage,  late 
one  night,  and  I  dreaded  that  her  partisanship 
would  make  her  say  bitter  things  of  him.  But 
I  did  not  know  my  Polly. 

"We  cannot  judge,"  she  said.  "You  always 
222 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


shielded  him  from  criticism,  therefore  I  can 
not  presume  to  criticise  him.  Only — I'm  so 
glad  you  did  just  what  you  did.  There  are  bet 
ter  things  in  store  for  you  than  happiness ;  out 
of  such  suffering  as  yours  something  great  will 
come." 

IT  SHALL. 

October  15th. 

I  am  working  very  hard  under  my  kind  pro 
fessor's  rigid  direction.  There  is  not  much  time 
to  write  in  this  book  now.  Every  detail  of  my 
new  work  has  absorbed  me.  The  music  is  mag 
nificent — the  story  enthralling — it  touches  the 
whole  gamut  of  feeling — love,  sin,  and  the  tri 
umph  over  sin — war,  victory,  death.  There  is 
in  it  one  of  the  most  beautiful  love  scenes  ever 
written,  followed  by  one  of  tragic  intensity  when 
the  young  queen,  who  is  in  love  with  her  coun 
try's  enemy,  jeopardizes  her  people  to  satisfy 
her  passion.  This  places  her  in  her  enemy's 
power,  so  that  at  the  crucial  moment,  when  she 

223 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


should  be  leading  her  people  to  victory  against 
her  lover,  she  is  imprisoned  in  his  tower,  owing 
to  his  treachery.  The  noise  of  battle  rages  with 
out — that  battle  music  is  so  wonderful! — and 
she,  realizing  her  lover's  treachery,  too  late, 
hurls  herself  against  the  doors  in  a  frantic  ef 
fort  to  reach  her  people.  The  horror  of  her 
struggle  is  told  in  terrible  arpeggios  that  climb, 
and  crash,  and  break,  like  great  ocean  rollers. 
Finally  the  doors  give  way,  and  she  stands  free 
on  the  balcony — risking  her  absolute  life,  for 
getting  herself,  intent  only  on  saving  her  peo 
ple — the  noise  and  din  of  battle  close  about  her. 
There  is  a  swift,  dark  change  where  the  walls 
of  the  inner  apartment  are  removed  and  the 
outer  courtyard  substituted.  When  the  lights 
go  up  again  the  battle  music,  which  has  contin 
ued  through  the  darkness,  swells  to  a  trium 
phant  victory  song,  and  at  its  height  comes  the 
sharp  contrast — the  note  of  doom.  The  young 
queen  is  wounded  unto  death.  She  has  expi- 

224 


THE  WOMAN  HEBSELF, 


ated  her  weakness.  Her  people  are  victorious, 
but  she  has  paid  with  her  life.  The  victory  song 
changes  to  a  dirge.  She  is  lifted  from  her  horse, 
and  her  lover  is  led  in,  a  prisoner,  in  irons.  He 
is  brought  before  her,  and  then  comes  the  most 
exquisite  bit  of  music  in  the  play — her  death- 
song: 

"Your  love  has  put  you  in  prison, 
Mine  has  set  me  free! " 

If  I  can  only  be  equal  to  the  demands  of  this 
great  role !  It  is  so  wonderful  that  I  am  actu 
ally  to  play  it.  They  have  trusted  completely 
to  Herr  Von  Seebach's  judgment  regarding  me, 
so  the  opportunity  is  mine.  He  has  turned  into 
a  veritable  tyrant,  my  dear  old  teacher.  I  live 
by  rule — eat,  exercise,  even  study  by  rule.  Yet 
he  makes  me  get  the  very  most  out  of  a  day  and 
out  of  myself;  and  the  part  is  growing  on  me 
like  an  obsession.  I  live  with  it  all  the  time. 


225 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


October  23d. 

The  days  are  flying  by,  crammed  with  work. 
It  is  so  intensely  interesting  and  inspiring,  and 
exhausting.  Every  day  I  come  home  from  re 
hearsal  tired  to  the  very  bones  of  me.  If  the 
public  could  realize  what  goes  to  the  making  of 
an  opera — the  many  kinds  of  brains,  not  only 
the  composer's,  and  the  musical  director's,  but 
all,  every  one's — well,  I  don't  think  that  five 
dollars  would  seem  much  for  a  seat.  It  is  like 
a  mosaic  of  intricate  pattern — every  part  of  it 
must  fit  in  its  place,  or  the  whole  is  marred. 
The  people  of  the  theatre  are  as  disciplined  as 
soldiers,  each  has  his  appointed  duty;  and  the 
stage  manager  is  like  a  general  marshalling  his 
forces  for  dress-parade.  And  there  are  divi 
sions  and  subdivisions — the  conductor,  the  stage 
manager,  his  assistant,  the  prompter,  the  boss 
carpenter,  the  head  electrician,  and  an  army  of 
scene-shifters  and  what  they  call  "fly-men." 
These  live  up  high  where  the  tops  of  the  stage 

226 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


trees  are,  and  it  is  amazing  to  see  the  chaos  of 
houses  and  trees,  tumbling  down  together, 
straightened  out  by  a  sharp  command  of  ' '  Take 
up  your  centre  line ! "  or  "  Come  down  on  your 
short ! ' '  Then  the  reeling  world  is  readjusted. 
Then  there  is  the  ballet  master,  the  tremendous 
work  of  the  chorus,  to  say  nothing  of  the  prin 
cipals,  each  wrapped  up  in  his  own  part.  I  have 
just  been  telling  Polly  all  about  it  over  a  cup 
of  tea.  Now  she  is  gone,  and  I  have  a  moment 
for  my  book,  in  front  of  my  little  fire.  Soon 
the  little  darky  maid  will  come  in  and  take  away 
the  tea-things,  and  ask :  ' '  Shall  I  light  up,  Miss 
Junia  ?"  And  how  her  accent  will  bring  back 
the  old  Virginia  days — the  devoted  old  servants 
—and  "  Dad  "—and  "Grandma."  Ah!  what  a 
different  person  I  was  then !  In  what  a  differ 
ent  atmosphere  I  lived!  How  evanescent  life 
is! — full  of  varying,  vanishing  phases.  Can 
this  be  I,  Junia  Grey — Junia  Trent?  No!  no! 
No  more  that — just  Junia  Grey.  What  will  my 

227 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELP 


dear  father  say?  And  what  would  Victor  de 
Toreyne  say — if  he  knew?  Ah!  I  must  try  to 
forget.  I  must  try  to  bury  myself  in  this  new 
work,  I  must  try  to  care  to  succeed  for  the  sake 
of  those  who  love  me,  to  justify  their  faith.  But 
since  what  I  say  here  cannot  be  heard,  I  will 
confess  to  myself:  "Junia,  you've  missed  it, 
somehow.  With  everything  in  your  favour — the 
great  gifts  of  birth  and  breeding,  and  happy  cir 
cumstance,  and  love,  and  homage,  and  special 
gifts  of  your  own — still  you've  missed  it — the 
best  of  life!  Poor  old  girl,  you've  got  to  try 
for  second  best — that's  what  we  come  to  at 
thirty." 
But  thank  God  for  the  second  chance ! 

November  9th. 

Everything  is  nearing  completion  now;  the 
production  is  growing  every  day  nearer  to 
smooth  perfection.  It  has  been  the  most  inter 
esting  and  absorbing  thing  I  have  ever  known, 

228 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


to  watch,  it  evolve.  I  studied  the  opera  in  its 
entirety  first,  then  every  part  of  it,  as  we  began 
to  rehearse ;  then  I  think  I  began  to  weigh  and 
balance  every  part,  my  own  included,  in  relation 
to  the  whole  story ;  and  finally,  the  interplay  of 
characters,  their  relation  to  each  other,  the  ef 
fect  of  motive  on  motive.  Most  of  my  associates, 
ever  so  much  more  experienced  singers  and  act 
ors  than  I,  have  been  most  kind — men  and  wom 
en  both.  They  have  all  helped  me  with  stage 
technique  and  suggestions,  and  I  have  listened 
most  gratefully.  Perhaps  this  has  endeared  me 
to  them,  for  we  always  like  those  whom  we  help ; 
but  it  seems  as  if  every  one  of  them  had  a  per 
sonal  wish  for  my  own  success.  I  have  heard  so 
much  of  the  jealousies  and  bickerings  among 
artists — but  I  have  seen  none  of  it,  so  far.  Ma 
dame  Doreno,  the  contralto,  an  Italian,  with 
beautiful  depth  of  tone  and  a  fine  gift  of  inter 
pretation,  has  been  most  kind.  She  showed  me 
how  to  "make  up"  at  our  first  dress  rehearsal. 

229 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


It  was  a  most  amusing  process.  I  have  done  it 
many  times  since,  to  make  myself  perfect  in  the 
art  before  our  opening.  My  familiar  face  turns 
into  something  quite  different.  I  instinctively 
paint  the  look  of  the  character  I  am  assuming 
into  it ;  so  that  when  I  stand  in  the  clothes  that 
character  wears,  and  walk  through  the  scenes 
that  are  her  environment,  and  sing  her  music 
or  recitative,  from  her  inner  mentality,  why,  I 
really  am  her  for  the  moment.  It  is  not  that 
"you  put  yourself  in  her  place,"  but  that  you 
take  yourself  away,  and  put  her  in  your  place. 
I  said  something  of  this  to  Madame  Doreno,  and 
she  replied: 

"Oh,  my  dear,  that  is  what  gives  atmosphere 
and  conviction,  that  sense  of  reality,  that  trick 
of  sincerity.  Only  an  artist  has  it.  They  are 
able  to  obliterate  themselves,  to  sink  their  own 
identity  in  their  portrayal.  But  they  seldom 
make  stars. " 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

230 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"Ah,  artists  have  atmosphere,  technique,  im 
agination,  and  are  able  to  project  all  three  ! 
across  the  footlights,  but  'stars'  have  person 
ality — often  so  great  that  they  need  nothing  else, 
to  succeed." 

It  was  an  interesting  point.  I  have  jotted  it 
down  to  think  of. 

November  13th. 

Only  a  few  days  now  before  the  great  open 
ing.  When  I  think  of  it  a  horrible  sick  faint- 
ness  comes  over  me,  and  I  cannot  sing  at  all. 
I  know  the  responsibility  that  devolves  on  me — 
my  dear  friend  and  Maestro 's  whole  work,  the 
thousands  that  have  gone  into  the  production, 
the  employment  of  the  many  people  in  the  cast 
— and  sometimes  it  seems  more  than  I  can  sus 
tain.  Then  I  call  every  energy  to  bear  me  up, 
to  conquer  the  cowardly  inadequacy  I  feel  in 
myself;  but  sometimes  during  the  strain  of 
these  last  rehearsals  I  have  all  but  fainted  away 

231 


,THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


with  sheer  anxiety  and  fright — ''stage  fright," 
Madame  Doreno  calls  it,  and  she  says  I  am  for 
tunate  to  have  it  beforehand.  It  doesn't  seem 
to  me  fortunate  to  have  it  at  any  time,  but  I 
suppose  she  knows.  She  is  most  kind  and  sym 
pathetic,  and  says  it  is  almost  unprecedented 
that  a  singer  of  no  experience  should  be  entrust 
ed  with  the  opportunity  of  a  lifetime. 

The  opportunity  of  a  lifetime!  It  seems  to 
be  coming  to  me  like  a  great  billow  that  will 
either  break  and  crush  me  or  bear  me  high  and 
swift  to  the  shore  of  achievement. 

November  19th. 

It  is  over  at  last.  I  am  sitting  up  in  bed  the 
morning  after,  shaking  still  with  the  tremour 
and  the  tears  of  it.  Dear  God !  I  took  a  desper 
ate  flight  in  the  dark  last  night,  and  it  landed 
me  somewhere  near  heaven.  I  did  not  know 
there  could  be  such  moments  in  a  human  life — 
that  one  could  so  absolutely  forget  one's  own, 

232 


little  self.  I  cannot  think  yet — I  can  only  feel 
it  all  over  again. 

It  was  such  a  relief  to  be  able  to  tell  Polly 
all  about  it  this  morning.  Dear  soul,  she  came 
in  and  sat  by  my  bedside  while  I  tried  to  take 
coffee  and  rolls,  as  usual,  and  let  me  talk  and 
talk  to  my  mind's  relief  and  my  heart's  content. 
She  was  so  proud  that  it  made  me  cry ;  she  was 
radiant  with  happiness  for  me.  She  brought  in 
a  bundle  of  papers  with  long  and  wonderful  ac 
counts  of  it,  and  we  have  been  living  it  over 
again.  She  was  there,  though  I  didn't  know  it 
— I  didn't  know  anything  last  night  but  what 
I  had  to  do.  When  she  said  gaily : 

"  Junia,  how  does  it  feel  to  be  a  great  success? 
to  be  hailed  as  the  coming  singer?  to  be " 

But  the  tension  gave  way  in  me  and  I  broke 
down  weakly. 

1 1  Tell  me  all  about  it, ' '  said  wise  Polly.  < '  Cry 
if  you  like,  but  talk — it  will  do  you  good.'* 

"At  first,  in  my  dressing-room,  I  was  so 
233 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


afraid — so  sick — I  thought  I  had  neither  the 
physical  strength  nor  the  mental  energy  to  go 
through  with  it.  I  wanted  to  run  away — yes, 
really!  I  could  hear  the  hum  and  buzz  of  the 
great  house,  I  could  feel  the  expectancy — and  I 
couldn  't  get  a  long  breath ! ' ' 

"Oh,  Junia,  dear!  What  did  you  do?" 
"Polly,  I  collapsed.  I  just  grovelled  on  the 
floor !  Oh,  no  one  would  believe  it,  but  the  maid 
will  tell  you.  Then  suddenly  I  thought  of  Joan 
of  Arc — I  suppose  because  that  scene  when  the 
queen  rides  in  at  the  head  of  her  troops  reminds 
one  of  the  Dauntless  Maid — and  I  thought  of 
how  she  said  she  could  never  have  done  it  but 
for  'her  voices.'  And  I  thought  'If  I  could  only 
hear  those  voices  now!'  and  somewhere  I  grew 
very  still  inside — listening.  Then  I  prayed.  I 
think  it  was  praying,  but  I  don't  know.  It  was 
a  great  reaching  out,  and  up,  without  any  co 
herent  expression;  and  I  seemed  to  feel  all  the 
other  minds  and  hearts  and  souls  on  the  other 
234 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


side  of  the  curtain  waiting — not  for  me,  but  for 
the  message  that  would  speak  to  them  in  dif 
ferent  ways  in  the  music  itself.  I  was  only  the 
mouthpiece.  Then  all  my  fear  and  responsibil 
ity  fell  from  me.  I  saw  that  something  greater 
than  I  was  behind  me — that  it  would  flow 
through  me  to  them — and  I  loved  them  all,  those 
men  and  women — who,  like  me,  'war  and  suffer 
and  pass  on' — and  then  I  did  hear  'the  voice,7 
the  voice  of  the  woman  I  was  to  play — who  had 
to  sin  in  order  to  understand,  who  had  to  suffer 
in  order  to  attain,  who  had  to  fight — and  fall — 
in  order  to  be  free;  and  then  the  first  bars  of 
the  overture  began,  and  I  stood  ready  in  the 
wings — tranquil,  with  long,  deep  breaths.'* 

"And  then,"  said  Polly  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"you  went  on  the  stage  and  played  as  few  wom 
en  ever  play.  That  love  scene  in  the  garden — • 
that  duet — there  was  never  anything  so  exqui 
site." 

She  reached  for  one  of  the  papers  and  read 
235 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


me  an  extract.  I  listened  in  amazement.  It 
didn't  seem  to  me  they  could  be  speaking  of 
me. 

"  'Madame  Junia  Grey,  in  a  gown  of  green, 
which  made  one  think  of  the  earth  in  spring, 
won  the  audience  from  the  first  note  she  uttered. 
Guinevere,  riding  through  the  May  woods  with 
Launcelotx  was  not  more  a  queen.  She  has  a 
voice  of  singular  purity  and  power,  but  it 
seemed  to  sink  into  insignificance  when  com 
pared  with  her  histrionic  gift  of  interpretation. 
One  feels  a  depth  of  temperament  and  poetry 
in  her  that  lead  one  to  prophesy  great  things  for 
this  newcomer.  Her  role  gave  her  exceptional 
opportunities,  and  she  rose  to  every  one  of  them 
with  the  surety  of  the  born  artist.  There  is  a 
touch  of  genius  in  this  surety.  Whether  she  was 
portraying  the  passion  and  fervour  of  the  young 
queen  in  the  first  act — and  a  scene  musically 
more  exquisite  has  seldom  been  written — or 

236 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


whether,  as  in  the  last  act,  she  rises  to  a  height 
of  tragic  intensity,  she  was  always  stronger 
even  than  the  situation.  Her  touch  is  true — in 
the  very  middle  of  the  note,  neither  under  nor 
overplayed.  Her  last  act  was  a  really  great  tri 
umph.  With  superb  abandon  she  visualized  the 
orchestration,  which  mounts  to  a  fine  crescendo 
and  climax.  Again  and  again  she  hurled  her 
self  like  a  beaten  wave  against  the  door  that 
must  open  to  her.  One  felt  the  actual  shock  of 
the  impact.  When  it  finally  fell,  and  her  voice 
broke  forth,  fierce  and  true,  her  audience  was 
electrified.  From  then  until  the  final  curtain 
they  were  under  a  spell.  But  it  was  not  until 
the  very  end  that  one  realized  the  quality  of 
voice  that  Madame  Grey  brings  to  her  art.  Pre 
viously  her  dramatic  power  had  overshadowed 
it.  In  the  last  song,  however — the  death-song — 
the  beauty  of  tone,  and  a  rare  spiritual  quality, 
both  in  the  music  and  the  woman  who  sang  it, 

237 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


held  the  whole  house  in  a  hush  that  was  signifi 
cant.' 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  said  Polly, 
throwing  the  paper  aside  excitedly.  "Junia, 
you  have  been  deceiving  me  all  these  years — 
you  have  been  pretending  you  are  not  a  gen 
ius!" 

The  good  laughter  at  her  absurdity  saved  me 
from  tears  that  were  perilously  near  again. 
Then  she  read  me  more  extracts.  They  all 
seemed  to  concur  in  the  belief  that  Herr  Von 
Seebach  had  written  a  masterly  work  and  dis 
covered  a  person  of  extraordinary  talent. 

"How  does  it  feel?"  asked  Polly  curiously. 

"As  if  some  one  had  changed  places  with  me. 
This  surely  can't  be  I!" 

Then  the  telephone  rang,  and  Polly  answered 
it.  It  was  Herr  Von  Seebach,  with  kind  inqui 
ries  and  jubilant  congratulations  for  his  new 
"star."  Polly  became  so  merry  and  excited 

238 


over  this  'phone  conversation  that  I  just  lay 
and  laughed  at  her. 

"He  says  that  we  have  one  of  the  greatest 
successes  of  the  day ;  that  they  will  demand  you 
when  it  is  produced  abroad ;  that  you  were  mag 
nificent;  that  you  have  a  splendid  future,  and 
are  his  'dear  Fraulein' — bless  him! — and  he  is 
coming  around  later,  to  make  sure  you  are  all 
right,"  she  said  all  in  a  breath  as  she  hung  up 
the  receiver. 

" Thank  Heaven,  I  haven't  got  to  do  it  again 
until  Friday — for,  oh,  Polly!  I  am  tired  all 
over!" 

She  left  me  after  a  while,  and  I  lay  for  a  long 
time  thinking.  This  is  what  it  means,  then,  to 
be  an  artist — to  have  given  up  everything  else 
in  life — to  slave  and  suffer  and  succeed  at  last 
— and  pay  for  it  all  with  the  very  blood  of  your 
heart.  The  one  face  in  the  world  is  not  in  the 
stage  box  and  the  one  voice  in  the  world  does 
not  join  in  the  plaudits.  Alone  one  fights,  alone 

239 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


one  wins — alone  one  receives  one's  reward. 
Does  it  compensate  ? 

A  great  nostalgia  for  home  seized  me — for 
humdrum,  happy  things — for  the  hills  and  the 
sea: 

"The  quiet  country  places 
Where  all  the  old  men  have  rosy  faces 
And  all  the  young  maidens  quiet  eyes," 

where  the  winds  blow  " austere  and  pure.'* 
Perhaps  it  is  a  great  nervous  reaction  after  the 
strain  of  last  night,  but  I  feel  I  would  give  much 
to  escape  out  of  it  all — to  a  place  of  dream. 
Yet  I  realize  my  dreaming  days  are  passed ;  that 
henceforth  I  touch  reality.  Life  stretches  away 
full  of  energy  and  effort,  full  of  work  and 
achievement,  and  I  ask  myself  for  what?  To 
what  end? — for  what  motive? 

November  25th. 

After  my  second  performance,  which  passed 
off  wonderfully,  also,  dear  Mrs.  Chester  came 
to  call  on  me.  I  had  not  seen  her  for  months. 

240 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


She  was  most  cordial  and  sweet,  and  asked  why 
I  had  neglected  all  my  friends  and  dropped  so 
completely  out  of  my  old  life,  and  expostulated, 
and  scolded,  and  petted  me  all  at  once. 

"We  are  all  very  proud  of  you,"  she  said. 
"You  seem  to  have  found  your  metier.  It  is 
better,  far  better,  than  marrying  again,  espe 
cially  the  Comte  de  Toreyne.  I  was  afraid  you. 
were  going  to  do  that,  Junia.  I  hear  his  play 
was  a  flat  failure  in  Paris.  What  a  fool  the 
man  is!" 

"Why,  I  thought  you  considered  him  so 
clever ! ' ' 

"Brilliant  as  a  skyrocket,  my  dear,  and  will 
fall  as  quickly — because  he  hasn't  the  stamina 
of  character  behind  his  brains.  You  will  see. 

He'll  go  to  pieces  like  all  those  nervous,  erratic 

f 

men,  through  sheer  excess  of  himself." 

But  I  didn't  want  to  talk  like  this  about  him 
who  holds  my  heart,  so  I  turned  the  conversa 
tion  to  other  subjects. 

241 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


But  afterward  it  vaguely  troubled  me.  Have 
I  done  wrong  in  separating  myself  from  him  in 
his  struggle — just  because  I  thought  he  did  not 
value  me  enough?  Ought  I  to  have  sacrificed 
my  pride  to  his  genius  and  his  need  of  me?  Per 
haps  I  should  have  stayed  and  helped  him.  Aft 
er  all,  he  loved  me  all  he  could.  That  it  did  not 
suffice  me  was  not  his  fault.  He  gave  me  all  he 
had.  I,  too,  am  erratic.  That's  why  I  love  and 
understand  him.  Why  should  I  indulge  my  self 
ish,  sensitive  pride  without  giving  him  a  chance 
to  even  protest,  and  fly  away  across  the  Atlantic 
just  because  I  saw  a  certain  hesitancy,  a  certain 
unwillingness  in  him?  Ah,  but  that's  it!  No 
self-respecting  woman  could  be  married  under 
such  conditions.  Still,  men  have  been  hesitating 
and  unwilling  since  marriage  was  first  invented, 
yet  women  have  married  them  and  made  them 
happy.  Why  should  I  be  different? 

I  am  weary  of  this  self-questioning  and 
dreaming.  Like  Psyche,  when  I  light  my  lamp 

242 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


of  reason  and  look  my  god  of  love  in  the  face — 
I  lose  him.  All  we  can  know,  we  Psyche-women, 
is  to  love,  close  and  secret,  in  the  dark  of  our 
hearts,  without  inquiry  or  examination  into  tha 
cause  and  inspiration  of  it  all. 

December  4th. 

This  wonderful  year  is  drawing  to  its  close. 
What  a  different  person  it  leaves  me!  In  the 
forcing-house  of  emotion,  my  powers,  like 
plants,  have  shot  up  almost  overnight.  From 
poverty  and  failure  and  loneliness,  from  sin  and 
sorrow,  I  have  reached  affluence,  success — and 
any  society  I  choose.  These  are  good,  but  it  is 
better  still  to  feel  my  father's  pride,  my  friends' 
faith,  justified.  Through  all  the  trouble  and 
sadness  these  never  once  reproached  me.  I  think 
if  it  had  not  been  for  them,  my  father  and  Polly 
principally,  I  should  have  been  tempted  to 
end  it  all  long  ago,  out  of  sheer  exhaustion  of 
effort.  But  there  they  stood,  their  faces  front- 

243 


ing  me  on  my  desk,  my  father's  saying,  "I  will 
provide  for  you ;  let  me  know  your  needs ' ' ;  and 
never  a  word  of  blame,  never  a  word  of  "My 
child,  I  told  you  this, "  never  a  hint  of  anything 
but  solicitude  and  sympathy,  and  great,  fine- 
hearted  feeling.  Oh,  Father  o  *  mine,  who  have 
been  father  and  mother  both!  And  there  also 
stood  Polly,  with  "Anything  you  like,  Junia, 
from  me,"  written  under  her  picture.  You've 
kept  your  word.  Oh,  dears !  I  had  to  try  with 
all  the  might  that  was  in  me  to  vindicate  your 
trust  in  me — to  wipe  out,  if  I  could,  the  one 
awful  thing  I  ever  did  in  all  my  life.  But  it's 
done — it's  done — it  can  never  be  undone !  There 
it  is.  It — can — never — be — undone!  Oh,  I  hide 
my  eyes  from  my  eyes — I  loathe  it  so !  It  took 
courage  to  do  it,  Polly,  you  said?  It  does  take 
courage  to  sin  the  sin  you  detest,  to  attain  the 
end  you  desire — but  sometime  surely  I'll  be  for 
given?  "With  what  measure  ye  mete,  it  shall 
be  measured  to  you  again."  I  must  believe  that. 

244 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


And  my  measure  of  expiation  shall  be  "pressed 
down  and  running  over."  , 

How  little  the  world  guesses  this  interior  life 
of  mine !  Even  Polly  doesn't  know.  I  have  one 
little  room  where  I  write,  and  no  one  comes  in 
here  but  me,  except  the  little  darky  maid  occa 
sionally,  to  clean  up.  It  is  very  orderly  and 
quiet,  and  full  of  pictures  of  him,  and  I  come 
here  to  rest  and  dream,  and  write,  and  to  realize 
how  much  I  owe  to  him.  The  world  and  life  are 
opening  up  to  me.  Heart  and  mind  are  busy. 
Every  power  is  being  called  into  play — and  all 
this  I  owe  to  him. 

The  delicate  lips,  the  cleft  chin,  the  fine,  sweet 
eyes,  the  sensitiveness  in  every  line,  almost  like 
a  woman's — the  splendid  head  nobly  set  on  a 
man's  shoulders,  these  were  all  worth  loving 
just  for  themselves  alone ;  but  it  is  You  behind 
them — You — that  holds  me.  You,  with  your 
head  full  of  dreams  and  heart  full  of  memories. 
You,  Boy,  with  your  brave  intentions — you, 

245 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


Man,  who  taught  me,  Woman,  the  meaning  of  it 
all.  Sometimes  I  wish  I  had  not  left  you  to  your 
own  separate  struggle — I  even  wish  I  had  mar 
ried  you  after  all.  It  would  have  meant  the 
right  to  stand  by  you  whether  you  succeed  or 
fail,  go  up  or  down ;  all  the  more  if  you  fail — if 
you  should  need  me.  And  you  do  need  me,  more 
than  ever  now,  when  you  have  met  failure  and 
criticism,  and,  I  hear,  financial  loss,  and  to  some 
extent  social  ostracism.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  help 
you! 

I  have  always  despised  women  who  indulge 
in  unrequited  love.  God,  and  nature,  and  life, 
and  our  own  selves  fight  against  so  monstrous 
a  thing.  There  is  a  kind  of  weakness,  fatuity, 
in  it.  If  love  is  ineffective  it  should  be  trans 
muted  into  something  else — like  work,  or  art,  or 
like  friendship.  When,  twice  a  week,  I  face  my 
audience,  some  of  them  brilliant,  distinguished 
men  and  women — but  all  of  them  men  and  wom 
en  with  things  in  common  with  me — the  unex- 

246 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


pressed  love  I  feel  for  one  flows  out  to  the  many, 
and  I  am  lifted  far  out  of  myself.  Their  learn 
ing,  listening  hearts  are  laid  bare  to  me.  Be 
tween  us  is  the  common  chord  of  life,  connecting 
us,  as  only  the  notes  which  blend  can  connect. 
The  chromatics  of  tears  and  laughter,  the  crash 
of  discord,  the  illumination  of  harmony,  are 
things  we  each  know — audience  and  artist  both. 
This  is  the  foundation  between  us.  On  this  we 
build  our  creation,  our  conception,  our  veritable 
castle  in  the  air,  since  it  is  far  above  the  ordi 
nary  levels  of  our  daily  lives.  Here  we  meet, 
in  these  dim,  unexplored  regions  of  thought; 
here  we  are  lifted  for  a  while,  a  part  of  the 
great  universal  life  that  is  in  all  things.  And 
fragments  of  immortal  words  seem  to  surge 
through  the  music: 

"The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too 

hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the 

sky, 

Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard; 
Enough  that  He  heard  it  once:  we  shall  hear  it  by  and  by." 

247 


THE  WOMAN  HEKSELF 


And— 

"Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  weal  and  woe; 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  He  whispers  in  the  ear; 
The  rest  may  reason,  and  welcome:    'tis  we  musicians 
know." 

There  are  times  when  I  feel  I  do  know,  when 
I  can  almost  hear  the  note  that  everything  in 
the  world  gives  forth,  climbing  up,  up,  till  it 
makes  a  sound  that  reaches  to  the  stars,  and 
joins 

"The  song  the  spheres  sing  endlessly." 

December  8th. 

I  had  a  great  surprise  this  morning — a  letter 
from  Victor  de  Toreyne.  He  said  he  had  just 
arrived  in  New  York  in  time  to  hear  me  sing 
last  night.  He  said  it  was  wonderful — the  whole 
opera — and  my  particular  part  of  it  finely  done. 
Then  he  asked  if  he  might  come  and  see  me  this 
afternoon,  giving  me  his  'phone  number.  So, 
with  the  old  beating  of  the  heart,  I  called  him 
up,  and  left  a  message  saying  I  should  expect 
him  at  five. 

248 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


When  he  came  into  the  room,  at  dusk,  he 
looked  into  my  eyes  for  a  second,  then  bowed 
his  face  in  the  hands  I  held  out  to  him,  and 
kissed  them  both. 

"I  came,"  he  said  simply,  "on  the  first  boat, 
after  I  heard  of  your  success.  Previous  to  that 
I  did  not  know  where  to  find  you." 

"I  hoped  you  wouldn't  try." 

"To  say  the  truth,"  he  answered,  "I  didn't 
try  at  first.  I  didn't  take  your  letter  quite  seri 
ously.  I  thought,  'She  will  not  really  go,'  or, 
'If  she  does,  she  will  come  back.'  " 

' '  Victor !    Did  you  know  so  little  of  me ! " 

"So  I  thought,  'I  will  let  her  alone  for  a  lit 
tle,  and  she'll  come  to  herself — and  to  me  in 
time.'  It  is  always  a  man's  best  game  to  wait." 

"  Oh  1 1  thought  it  was  a  woman's — waiting ! ' ' 

"But  when  you  didn't  write  again,"  he  con 
tinued,  disregarding  my  interruption,  "I  grew 
seriously  anxious " 

"Not  really?" 

249 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


-and  returned  from  Paris  to  make  sure. 


I  was  genuinely  astonished  to  find  you  had  actu 
ally  gone!" 

I  rose  with  a  suffocating  feeling  of  revolt. 
That  he  should  have  so  underestimated  the 
strength  of  my  feeling,  of  my  motive,  of  my 
sacrifice  of  happiness  for  self-respect,  humili 
ated  me  unbearably.  There  was  such  a  tempest 
of  feeling  within  me  that  I  dared  not  speak. 
He  continued: 

"So  I  followed  you,  Junia,  as  soon  as  I  heard 
from  the  cable  dispatches  where  you  were  and 
what  you  were  doing.  I  have  come  to  take  you 
back  with  me — as  my  wife." 

"That  is  impossible  now."  I  spoke  with 
great  difficulty,  trying  to  keep  back  all  but  the 
necessary  words. 

His  face  went  white. 

"You  no  longer  care  for  me,  then?" 

"It  isn't  that." 

"Then,"  he  cried,  rising  and  facing  me, 
250 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"what  in  God's  name  is  it,  Junia?  Don't  tor 
ture  me  with  any  more  of  these  vagaries.  You 
must  marry  me — nothing  else  is  fair  to  either 
of  us.  We  have  gone  too  far.  You  must  submit, 
and  let  me  think  for  you ! ' ' 

Then  all  my  control  gave  way,  and  I  rounded 
on  him  fiercely. 

*  *  Submit ! "  I  cried.  '  *  Yes,  when  you  can  show 
me  something  bigger  than  myself  to  submit  to ! 
WTien  you  can  show  me  a  man  who  knows  how 
to  care  for  a  woman,  protect  her,  stand  between 
her  and  the  things  that  hurt — instead  of  heap 
ing  hurts  upon  her !  Oh,  I  have  tried  and  tried 
to  excuse  you  to  my  heart,  to  champion  you 
even  against  my  reason.  I  have  forgiven  things 
no  woman  should  forgive — unspeakable  things 
— unbelievable  things — till  I  am  weary  of  the 
degradation  of  loving  you!  Oh,  I  ought  not 
reproach  you — it  is  myself  I  should  blame.  I 
made  myself  cheap  to  you — I  gave  you  myself ! 
If  I  had  sold  myself  you  would  have  valued  me 

251 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


more!  But  I  just  threw  it  all  at  your  feet.  I 
let  you  see  and  guess  and  take  and  have.  It 
was  my  glory  to  give — unsparingly — entirely — 
absolutely.  Ah,  God  hates  fools,  they  say,  and 
no  wonder.  I  hate  myself,  remembering  how 
I  worshiped  you! 

"But  now — now  that  I  see  and  understand — 
I  at  least  am  big  enough  to  bear  the  conse 
quences  alone,  to  stand  on  my  own  feet,  and  say 
to  you  there  is  a  duty  I  owe  myself  before  any 
I  owe  you.  There  is  a  devotion  I  owe — not  to 
you — but  to  my  own  ideal. ' ' 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  us,  while 
he  stood  by  the  window,  looking  out  into  the 
failing  light.  I  saw  the  droop  of  his  shoulders 
and  head,  the  nervous  hands  tightly  clasped  be 
hind  his  back.  And,  as  always,  pity  and  pas 
sion,  those  prime  ministers  of  a  woman's  fate, 
clamoured  in  my  heart  for  him;  but  I  turned 
away  my  eyes. 

After  a  long  time  he  turned  to  me  a  different 
face ;  it  was  as  if  a  blight  had  gone  over  it. 

252 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


' '  I  have  no  defense,  Junia, ' '  he  answered  qui 
etly.  "All  that  you  say  is  true.  Yet  I  had 
hoped — that  your  love  was  big  enough  to  for 
give  me — and  understand  me — not  that  I  de 
serve  it,  but  that  I  need  it." 

He  took  up  his  hat  and  coat  and  moved  to 
ward  the  door,  but  before  he  reached  it  some 
thing  like  a  clean  wind  blew  through  my  mind 
— blew  its  stress  and  storm  quite  away,  so  that 
when  he  turned  to  say  good-by  he  saw  my  hands 
held  out  to  him. 

"Come  back!"  I  took  his  things  from  him 
and  laid  them  down,  then  came  and  stood  be 
fore  him.  "It  is  you  who  do  not  understand — 
but  try  to  now !  We  are  not  the  same  man  and 
woman  who  fell  in  love  two  years  ago  and  more. 
It  is  not  that  love  is  dead,  but  it  has  changed 
us — we  are  on  different  mental  planes  now;  we 
look  at  things  from  a  different  standpoint,  we 
almost  speak  a  different  language.  It  would  be 
impossible  for  us  to  find  happiness  together 
now." 

253 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


"Impossible  for  you,  Junia?" 

"For  either  of  us.  Sit  down,  and  let  us  talk 
quietly. ' ' 

He  obeyed  like  a  child — which  he  really  is; 
but  after  a  moment  he  said,  looking  into  the 
fire: 

"All  these  phrases  of  yours — they  only  mean 
one  thing — that  you  have  ceased  to  care  for 
me." 

"Oh,  no!  no!  no!  It  isn't  that — it  can  never 
be  that !  Oh !  how  shall  I  make  you  understand? 
How  shall  I  reach  you  ? ' ' 

I  despaired  of  finding  the  words  to  put  my 
feelings  in,  and  stretched  out  my  hands  toward 
him,  but  without  touching  him,  in  a  surge  of 
tenderness. 

"Dear,  it  isn't  that  I  don't  love  you — and 
yearn  toward  you — but  there  is  something  in 
me — I  don't  know  how  to  express  it — so — so  big 
— it  will  not  permit  me  to  yield  to  a  smaller 
thing.  I  can't  compromise  with  it,  and  I  can't 

254 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


surrender  it.  Once  I  gave  it.  But  it  never — 
can  be  given — again." 

There  was  a  strange  hush  between  us,  and  the 
words  seemed  to  go  on  in  the  stillness,  "It  never 
— can  be  given — again" — that  wild,  sweet,  won 
derful  thing  that  comes  but  once — that  tortures 
and  teaches  us.  And  remembering  the  glory  of 
it,  the  tears  shook  me  silently. 

And  he  understood.  With  a  sudden  sob,  he 
laid  his  face  in  his  down-dropped  hands. 

"Ah,  June — forgive  me!" 

"Child,"  I  said  with  my  hand  on  his  head, 
"I,  too,  should  ask  forgiveness  for  yielding  to 
less  than  the  best  in  you — and  in  myself.  But 
we  each  work  out  our  own  salvation.  In  differ 
ent  ways  we  find  ourselves." 

* '  And  when  we  do ! ' ' 

"Then — perhaps — we  find  each  other." 

Suddenly  he  threw  his  arms  about  me,  and  his 
voice,  tense  and  low  with  feeling,  was  crying : 

"I  can't  bear  it!  I  want  you!  I  need  you! 
255 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


I  must  have  you !  You  are  just  the  one  woman 
in  the  world  for  me !  You  know  the  best  and  the 
worst  of  me — you  understand.  And  God,  and 
Fate,  and  your  own  self,  have  given  you  to  me. 
I  intend  to  hold  what  I  have ! '  * 

And  for  just  one  terrible  second  the  old  inti 
mate  swoon  of  the  senses,  like  an  encroaching 
tide,  threatened  to  overwhelm  my  soul  and 
drown  its  deep  instinct  that  was  whispering  to 
me.  Only  for  a  second,  and  then  I  took  a  step 
away. 

' '  You  can 't  hold  me  any  more, ' '  I  said.  ' '  Oh, 
how  shall  I  make  you  understand  without  hurt 
ing  you  too  much!  Don't  you  see,  I  can't  yield 
again — except  to  something  bigger  than  myself? 
My  love  for  you  at  first  was  that — bigger  than 
I.  But  now  I  am  bigger  than  my  love.  I  had 
no  sense  of  proportion  in  the  old  days.  You 
were  all — all — all.  That  is  why  all  this  pain  had 
to  come  to  me,  I  suppose,  that  I  might  learn  the 
other  things  of  life.  I  shall  learn  them,  but  not 

256 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


as  your  wife.  Oh!  can't  you  understand?  I 
should  give  and  give,  coin  and  recoin  myself  for 
you  in  every  way  a  woman  can,  and  then  in  mo 
ments  of  weakness,  when  I,  too,  need  under 
standing,  and  that  help  and  strength  for  which 
a  woman  naturally  turns  to  her  mate,  I  should 
turn  in  vain,  and  ask  of  you  a  kind  of  bread  you 
could  not  give.  That  is  the  habit  of  marriage — 
the  natural  habit  of  a  woman  to  look  to  her  man 
for  the  bigger  heart  and  the  broader  brain  than 
she  finds  in  herself.  And  if  she  doesn't  find  it 
in  him — then  she  must  go  alone." 

He  stood  listening,  with  his  elbow  on  the  man 
telpiece  and  his  head  in  his  hand. 

"Poor  girl!  poor  girl!"  he  said  when  I  had 
finished.  ' '  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you — nothing 
to  ask  you  to  come  back  to — only  myself — and 
I'm  done  for.  You  are  wise  to  give  me  up." 

And  at  last  God  gave  me  the  great  words  to 
speak  that  exalted  his  humility: 

"Oh,  man-child!  It  is  to  you  I  owe  every- 
257 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


thing  I  have  in  life — its  passion  and  poetry — 
its  reality — its  whole  great  meaning.  All  I  have 
that  is  really  mine — all  I  am — I  owe  to  you — to 
the  thoughts  your  genius  kindled  in  me — to  the 
love  you  inspired.'* 

"Junia,"  he  said  brokenly,  "you  bow  me  to 
the  earth  with  such  a  tribute.  I  have  not  de 
served  it." 

"You  could  not  have  won  it  else,"  I  answered. 
' '  Oh,  if  I  could  only  inspire  in  you  the  same  love 
for  me — not  the  kind  you  have  for  me  now — 
but  the  kind  that  should  be  the  whip  and  spur 
to  your  spirit — and  its  rest  as  well !  Then  you 
would  find  yourself  through  me,  as  I  found  my 
self  through  you." 

"I  can't  fight  it  out  alone,"  he  said  tiredly. 

And  in  passionate  pity  and  sadness  I  an 
swered  : 

"We  all  must,  dear.  Every  one  goes  alone 
in  the  great  moments  of  life,  in  the  ultimate 
things." 

258 


THE  WOMAN  HERSELF 


We  were  looking  each  other  in  the  eyes  at  the 
end,  deep  calling  to  deep.  Then  with  a  swift, 
beautiful  movement,  that  one  of  another  race 
could  not  have  made,  he  threw  his  arms  around 
my  knees,  hiding  his  face  there.  And  my  tears 
fell  on  his  hair  as  I  stooped  and  kissed  it. 

"Go  to  school — go  to  school,  little  lad,  and  so 
will  I ;  but  by  and  by,  when  we  have  learned  the 
lesson,  come  back — come  home." 

He  arose  and  held  my  hands  against  his 
breast,  and  I  said,  realizing  him  anew: 

"I  think  you  were  my  life's  real  starting 
point." 

"And  you  are  mine's  far  goal." 

And  then  he  was  gone. 

And  I  fell  on  the  hearth-rug,  sobbing,  pray 
ing;  for  our  great  moments  come — and  go — 
leaving  a  trail  of  tears. 

December  21st. 

Once  again  I  am  on  the  ocean,  sailing  away 
from  the  past,  from  "the  old  and  dear,  and  the 

259 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


changing  year,"  to  play  on  the  Continent  the 
part  I  created  here.  Life  stretches  before  me 
full  of  work  and  energy  and  purpose,  full  of 
friendship — old  and  new — "for  friendship — 
that  remains." 

The  last  I  saw  of  America  was  Polly,  with 
outstretched  arms  that  blew  me  kisses,  and  the 
brave  little  smile  that  I  knew  hid  dimming  eyes 
like  my  own.  This  is  good-by.  Different  lands, 
different  times,  different  work  will  divide  us, 
but  never  again  in  this  world  will  come  to  me 
a  friendship  so  precious,  so  rich  and  ripe  in 
experience,  so  hallowed  with  association,  from 
far-off  little-girl  days.  Little  Polly,  in  your 
gingham  dress,  down  in  Virginia  long  ago — lit 
tle  Polly  on  the  dock,  waving  me  good-bye  just 
now — you  are  one  and  the  same — child-woman 
and  woman-child. 

I  feel  as  if  I  had  at  last  found  myself,  like 
Kipling's  ship.  Things  and  people  pass,  are 
transmuted  into  something  else.  Transmuta- 

260 


THE  WOMAN  HEESELF 


tion  is  the  only  thing  that  lasts.  And  what 
transmutation  is  to  matter,  transfiguration  is  to 
the  spirit.  It  pierces  the  infinite  and  claims  its 
own.  Therefore,  in  spite  of  all  our  modern 
unbelief,  when  I  think  of  him  I  think  of  a  bridge 
between  two  eternities,  the  Now  and  the  To  Be, 
between  worlds — the  Here  and  the  Hereafter. 
The  force  that  drew  us  together  will  weld  us 
again,  by  and  by.  Otherwise,  of  what  use  the 
race,  or  the  reward  thereof,  to  the  runner? 

Poor  old  passing  year,  with  its  wrenches  and 
heartaches,  the  birth-pangs  of  the  new.  Go,  and 
God-speed,  into  the  past  where  the  golden  mem 
ories  dwell.  For  you,  old  year,  yesterday;  for 
him,  for  me — the  open  window — and  To-mor 
row! 


THE 


261 


THE  WOMAN,  THE 

MAN  AND  THE 

MONSTER 

A  ROMANCE 
By  CARLETON  DAW 


THE  plot  of  this  novel  is  surprisingly 
unique.  Some  of  the  situations  are 
so  startling  as  fairly  to  take  away  the 
breath.  The  opening  scene  discloses  a 
woman,  stripped  of  clothing,  bound  to  a 
tree.  There  are  such  dramatic  denouements 
as  to  make  the  intrigue  which  is  the  main 
thread  of  the  story  interesting  to  an  intense 
degree.  The  beauty  of  the  heroine,  her  de 
lightful  mentality,  her  quickness  of  wit  and 
perception,  are  all  charming  features  of  the 
story.  And  there  are  romantic  hillside  love 
scenes,  with  kisses  colored  by  the  sunset, 
and  the  daintiest  of  wooings  and  cooings 
with  always  a  mystery  and  a  fearsome 
shadow  in  the  background. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


THE  ISLE  OF 

TEMPTATION 

A  NOVEL 

By  ARTHUR  STANLEY 
COLLETON 


IN  the  Isle  of  Temptation,  we  offer  a 
novel  of  the  intensest  dramatic  quality, 
a  novel  magnificently  aglow  with  life.  The 
author  is  an  unflinching  realist,  but  one  who 
has  known  how  to  invest  his  unparalleled 
fearlessness  and  truthfulness  with  dignity, 
with  sincerity,  with  sombre  beauty. 

It  is  the  story  of  a  youth  who  came  to 
New  York,  "  that  terrible  enchantress ;"  — 
whom  the  city  took  into  her  magical  em 
brace  and  fed  with  the  subtle  honey  of  her 
poisonous  blooms. 

The  author  is  especially  powerful  in  his 
delineation  of  female  characters.  We  do 
not  hesitate  to  say  that  Kate  Bathurst,  Lucy 
Treat  and  Clara  Earle  are  women  worthy 
of  Balzac — relentlessly  and  powerfully  pre 
sented. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


A  WOMAN  OF 
UNCERTAIN  AGE 

A  NOVEL 
By  MARY  ANNE  BERRY 


OUEER  things  happen  among  the 
SMART  SET;  Newport  is  a  city 
that  has  its  secrets.  What  is  it  that  really 
happens,  sometimes,  when  all  the  mis 
chievous  little  Cupids  are  in  a  sarcastic 
mood?  the  events  in  the  pages  of  A 
WOMAN  OF  UNCERTAIN  AGE. 

Her  age  was  extremely  uncertain,  to  be 
sure.  Not  so  her  beauty,  her  charm,  her 
passion,  the  mingled  joyousness  and  pathos 
of  her  fate.  And  as  for  her  adventures — 
they  were  quite  too  surprising  to  be  re 
vealed  here. 

The  book  is  no  deliberately  studied  bit  o£ 
sophisticated  art.  Fresh,  passionate,  im 
mediate,  it  welled  from  the  author's  heart, 
from  her  rich  and  romantic  experience  of 
life,  from  her  freedom  and  flexibility  of 
spirit.  There  is  not  a  slow  page  in  it,  not 
one  that  is  not  piquante,  brave,  sparkling. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


AFTER  THE 
PARDON 

A  NOVEL 
By  MATILDE  SERAO 


THE  finding  of  a  new  presentation  of 
a  phase  of  human  passions  is  a 
delight  rarely  encountered.  In  this  romance 
of  hearts,  righteous  jealousy  and  satiated 
passions  combine  to  bring  about  an  extra 
ordinary  marital  situation.  And  then,  again 
jealousy  is  responsible  for  both  disaster  and 
happiness. 

Creatures  made  of  miserable  clay  could 
not  comprehend  the  sublimity  of  the  love 
which  sways  the  Latins  and  bends  them  to 
its  desires.  Warm  blood  flows  in  their 
veins.  In  them  the  emotional  nature  and 
the  finer  intelligence  are  ever  at  variance. 
Always  there  is  the  struggle  and  mainly  the 
emotional  is  predominant.  Their  passions 
force  them  beyond  all  laws  and  duties, 
beyond  all  vows. 


12mo,  Cloth.    Price,  $1.50 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


9*1990 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


000  245  995 


